It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins

In Short, You Have a Ghastly Mess! (3)

Hands covering his mouth, Matthew exhaled a select number of profanities as quietly as he could. "Oooooh my God, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod," he whispered until he had no more air in his lungs. Drawing in a slow, long breath, Matthew bit the inside of his cheek and called, "Guys, are there any clothes left in your room?"

Lilly, bed sheet still in hand, appeared in her doorway.

Elliot appeared with a handful of collared shirts, which he immediately dropped on the floor. "You said to get laundry."

"That's, that's what I thought, too," she added.

"Are there any clothes left in your room?" he asked, surprised by the sharp irritation in his voice.

"They're smelly!" she insisted.

"Oka – are they stained? Are they ripped? Do you not wear them? Do you just have a lot of them?"

The girl turned to Elliot, expecting an answer. They said nothing.

"Keep dirty clothes in your room; I will come get them later. Clothes you don't want anymore, bring down to the playroom. We'll give them away. Now –" he sighed, gritting his teeth, "– I need to go make a date with a plumber, an electrician, a woodworker, and someone who deals with restoration."

Lilly gasped and started bouncing. "Oh my God, are you getting married?"

"Not if I die first, Lilly," he called over his shoulder, taking the ramp back down to the main floor. "I want to see that hallway clean by the time I come back upstairs, got it?" He got no response.

Pausing in the living room, Matthew turned back towards Yang's office. He caught the older man just as he placed his hand on the doorknob. "Sir?"

"I have work, Mr. Robinson." He opened the office door.

"I'm aware, sir, but I just wanted to ask really quickly –"

"I'm, working, Mr. Robinson," he sighed, closing the door in his face. "Do your job."

Gritting his teeth, his breath frozen in his throat, Matthew balled his fists against his sides and silently screamed. 'God, what I wouldn't give for a fucking smoke.' His head pulsing with a headache, he hissed, "Another thing to add to the list." Throwing back a piece of nicotine gum, he returned upstairs.

Another hour of coordinating what stays and what goes into three initial piles, which grew to five, then down to four, brought about the children's bedtimes. Interspersed in all this were Lilly and Elliot insisting their clothes were dirty, only to bring more. Matthew sorted the toys, bed sheets, and other objects into their respective piles, and fielding one tantrum and not one, but three, paint cup spills. Matthew finally turned off the light to Elliot's room.

"Leave the door propped open?" Elliot asked.

Matthew did. "Goodnight, Eli."

The boy's response was to roll over, his back facing Matthew.

"Goodnight, Lilly," he whispered, switching off the light.

Lilliana enthusiastically waved and slammed herself down into her pillows, remaining still.

He closed the door.

Wiping his brow, he pulled out his phone. It flashed 10:22, two text messages from Toby, and a missed call from his father. Sighing, he pressed his back against the wall, and slid down to the floor, slipped his phone into his pocket. Curling into a ball felt natural at this point. Sobs threatened to jump out if he opened his mouth.

Taking in a slow breath, Matthew stood and started moving the piles of clothes and toys down to the playroom.

By the time he finished, body sore and sticky, he considered a shower. Matthew paused and stared at the doorway to the bathroom Mr. Yang pointed out to him the day before. Knocking open the door with his foot, he found, unsurprisingly, a smelly room with good light, standing water, and a toilet that only flushed when done several dozen times.

"No wonder everyone quit," he muttered under his breath, flicking on the light which, amazingly, turned on; the exhaust fan, clearly installed haphazardly, did not. The water in the shower basin, despite the drain unplugged, didn't move. "No wonder everyone quit," he repeated a little louder.

Collapsing onto his bed, he sighed and closed his eyes. The only light that worked in his room on, Matthew yawned and turned to his side, wishing that he had more time in the day for the kids. He wished he had more time to learn. More time for Mr. Yang to spend with his children. "This isn't fair," he muttered, trying hard to keep his eyes open. "It's not fair to them."

"Mr. Robinson?"

Matthew lifted himself up despite his body's protests and stumbled into the kitchen.

Mr. Yang, scrutinizing the left-out dishes from the children's dinner, promptly asked, "I'd like my dinner now."

Hands balled into fists, Matthew retrieved a personal frozen pizza and slid it across the counter.

Skeptical, the man met his employee's glare. "That's what the children had?"

He sighed. "Sir, it's after 11, and I'm off the clock. If you want food from now on, you come at the time I serve it to your children, like you said you would." It came out harsher than he intended.

The man tensed. "I will not be spoken to like this in my own home."

The response did little to quell Matthew's frustration. "Then you should've gotten to me before 7:30. Before the children were put to bed."

Mr. Yang placed his hands on the corner of the kitchen island, his eyes moving over the nanny; something at work in his head. He straightened up, checking his watch. "Actually, I think I'll retire for the night," he muttered, turning back for the living room. The man paused in the dining room doorway. "I recommend you start learning to cook, Mr. Robinson," Yang uttered, his soft voice tinged with obvious disappointment. He turned his head just enough for Matthew to process his glare. "Children of that age cannot survive, alone, on processed foods." Yang turned, fully facing him. "And let me say one more thing – if I wanted them to eat like typical college students, I would've asked that."

"...yes, sir," he replied, stomach so twisted it sickened him.

Mr. Yang departed. "So disappointing," he muttered.

He swallowed back wanting to tell Yang about the bathroom. He swallowed back every snapping word that nearly left his lips. Leaning over, his torso aligned with the countertop and his arms sprawled over the sides, Matthew groaned openly. He didn't care if Mr. Yang could hear. Throwing himself upright, he threw the pizza back into the freezer.

The pit in Matthew's stomach assured him, again, that he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Yawning, Matthew filled the sink with hot, soapy water and started cleaning.

His night officially ended when, after an hour of digging through the clogged shower drain and withdrawing at least a pound of sludge and hair and ruining a dishwashing glove in the process, Matthew cleaned himself for the first time in two days.