The Distraction

Untitled Part 2

I'm eight, holding my five-year-old sister Abbie's hand. Once again, momforgot to pick us up. The guidance counselor is calling her while attemptingto comfort me. She tells us mom is probably running late, but we both knowthe truth: my mom forgot.Embarrassment floods my system as Mrs. Tate comes driving up in herold blue minivan. The Tates are our next-door neighbors and Sadie Tate ismy best friend in the whole wide world. Mrs. Tate is also our emergencycontact, thanks to me. I secretly wrote her down on the beginning of the yearpaperwork mom forgot to fill out. She's been called a few times since andnever asked why."Hi, Mrs. Tate," I say, keeping my eyes down. Abbie jumps in theminivan behind me and we buckle up. I wave hi to Sadie in the front seat andMrs. Tate looks back at us with a sad smile. She knows the truth, too. A lot ofgrown-ups give us that smile, filled with pity and a dash of anger.When we get home, I say 'no thank you' to Mrs. Tate when she offers tohave us over for an after-school snack. Just like momma would want. "Weain't freeloaders," she'd say to us, though she's always bumming moneyfrom boyfriends.The dingy grey front door of our small neglected home with theovergrown lawn is unlocked as usual."Nothing but junk in here to steal anyway," Momma always says. I getmy sister settled at the old weathered kitchen table with mismatched chairsDaddy found on the side of the road years ago. Pulling the chair with thesturdiest legs over to the cabinets helps me reach the last silver package ofPop-Tarts. We split the packet of stale pastries, hoping it will tide us overuntil mom makes dinner.Abs needs help with her kindergarten homework, so we do it togetherwhile I work through my math. Next, it's time for us to neaten up our room.After making our beds, Abbie does a puzzle while I organize all of our handme-down dolls, making sure I dress each doll and brush her hair beforeputting her away. Each one perfectly cared for."I'm hungry, Hannah," my sister says at 7:30 when we're sitting on thecouch. It's her turn to choose, so we're watching The Little Mermaid for themillionth time while we wait for our mom. I stand with a sigh, knowing Momprobably won't be home until late.After I heat up a can of SpaghettiOs, we eat dinner, giggling over theworn magazine of boy bands we crush on that Sadie gave me when shefinished reading it. Before we go to sleep, I'll hide it back under my mattressso momma doesn't find it and throw it away.We shower and I brush Abbie's long, dark hair before braiding it. We getto bed in the tiny room we share, but not before I lock the doors, keeping thefront light on for Momma.Hours later, I hear banging and scramble out of bed.No key, I think. The clock on the cable box blinks bright red numbers,telling me it's long past midnight."Lazy piece of shit," my mom murmurs between loud smacks of her handon the front door. She knows not to yell too loud. Wouldn't want theneighbors to come asking questions."Sorry, Momma." I unlock the door, letting her in and closing it behindher."Why'd you lock it?" she snaps. She's wearing a small red dress, thestrap falling off her shoulder. The heels she's wearing are too high, and shetrips over nothing as she walks through our small living room. Her eyes cutto me, full of anger and resentment. "I left my key at Jeff's and couldn't getin." I don't know who Jeff is, but it doesn't matter. He'll be done with her assoon as he realizes she's quietly stealing from his wallet before she leaves atnight."Sorry, Momma," I murmur. Experience tells me this is the safestresponse to my mom."Where's the leftovers?" Cold washes through my gut."Leftovers?""Yes, you smartass. Leftovers. You fed your sister, didn't you? Or is itjust that you really are good for nothin'?""Abbie and I just shared a can of SpaghettiOs... There wasn't any extra."I say to her, shuffling my sock-clad feet nervously. There's a hole in the leftone, my big toe peeking out."Selfish ungrateful brat. Didn't you think your Momma would wantdinner?"MY PHONE on the kitchen island buzzes, blaring an alarm and anotification. The sound knocks me out of the past and into the present.3:15 pm - Last reminder: start walking to the bus stop for Sara.Shit. A quick glance around shows me the chaos that has grownexponentially in the last hour. I resign myself to the fact it just has to besorted out after picking up the kids. The bottles of cleaner are placed back intheir homes so no one can get into them before grabbing my bag and keys.Closing the door behind me, the scents of summer hit my nose as thesound of the mailman greeting my neighbors drifts by. It's almost time forsunscreen and sprinklers and melting popsicles, I think with a smile. Thekids aren't the only ones who are excited. It's my favorite time of year, too.With the weather so gorgeous, it's hard not to grin again as I pass Mrs.Connor's path that she lines with bright flowers each year.Eventually, the sign for the bus stop is in view, and I slow to a stop.When I check the time on my phone it shows 3:19. The bus should behere in exactly 1 minute. Being late for anything makes me itchy, but beinglate to pick the kids up is unacceptable.My mother couldn't be counted on to be where we needed her when weneeded her as kids. Late for school pick-ups, no show at dance recitals,forgotten lunch money, and field trip waivers. I couldn't even tell you howmany times we woke up to an empty house, having to get fed and ready forschool ourselves.The occasional weekends at my dad's place weren't much better. Arevolving door of new girlfriends, who ranged from "new mommy" to "whyare your children stealing my attention"I should be thankful things weren't worse. We were always fed andclothed and neither parent ever laid a hand on us. But when you're told fromthe age of seven you ruined your mom's life by being born or having yourfather tell your mother is a whore, it leaves its own invisible scars.My childhood left a greasy, sad stain across my memories, forcing me todedicate my life to counteracting the ugliness I experienced. The kids in mycare will always feel nothing but happiness, love, and safety.The sound of the big yellow bus travels three blocks, signaling they'renear. It's not the noise of the engine, but the kids giggling and yellingthrough the open windows. It rolls to a stop before letting out a loud squeakas the doors open. Sara hops out first, followed by her sister who goes to halfday Pre-K, coming home on the same bus.Sara is tall for her age, nine years old with long, gangly legs that point toher being tall and lean like her mom when she grows into them. This morningshe meticulously pulled her hair into a messy bun, a style we laughinglyspent an entire rainy afternoon learning how to "effortlessly" achieve."Hey, guys!" I wave, directing them back to the house."Hey, Hannah." Sara pulls her book out from the side pocket of her bag.The girl's nose is always in a book. She can famously walk home reading,barely looking up once."Guess what!?" yells Rosie."What!?" I yell back, making her giggle."Only one more day left of school! Did you finish our shirts?" Her fiveyear-old self is practically skipping down the sidewalk, scuffing her brandnew sneakers in her excitement. The kid goes through a pair a month becauseof it."Slow it down, bud. If you put a hole in your shoe this quick, your momis going to flip." She slows, but barely. "Yes, I'm almost done with your lastday shirts. You wanted green, right?" I say, flicking one of her pigtails.Rosie is the easiest kid ever to punk, which becomes clear quickly whenshe stops in place. She turns to me, almost making all three of us collide."What? No way! I wanted PINK!""I'm just kidding, you goober. Do you think I don't know your favoritecolor?" She sighs with relief and I can't help but laugh.As always, once we walk in the door Rosie has a million and sevenstories to tell me, from what the little boy told her on the playground to whather teacher was wearing today to what she had for lunch (as if I wasn't theperson to pack it) to wondering what her Uncle Hunter did all day while shewas gone.For that last one, I can't help but wonder the same thing. The Bronco hadstayed in the drive all day and the door to his room stayed shut. I'm not evensure if he ate today.One thing I know for certain: I'm glad he's not my boss. More than once,while I was running around the house to grab things or straighten up, I heardhim yelling at someone on the phone. A few times it was loud enough to heardownstairs, the frustration in his voice palpable. I know from Autumn thecompany grew quickly over the last 10 years and there have been more thanenough growing pains and headaches. But it seems like Mr. Hutchins isn't aspatient with the errors as his sister.Either way, with practice and ease, learned from years of changing topics,I push the conversation back to school and Rosie happily follows my lead.The after-school rush can be stressful for some, but for me, it's calmingand soothing to have all of the chaos to handle. We get home and the girls runupstairs to inevitably make a mess while I get a snack together, clean up, andprep dinner for the Sutter's.Autumn walks in not long after, a stylish laptop bag in one hand, a bunchof grocery bags in the other, and a cellphone to her ear. Her long auburn hairis tangled between the black straps of the oversized tote she carrieseverywhere. It's impossible not to laugh at her when, after the call ends, she'sstill stuck with her head cocked to the side."Need a hand over there?" I ask, pulling the phone from her ear as shedrops the laptop bag and begins untangling her locks."I swear to God, I do not know what I'd do without you." She collapsesinto the taupe love chair closest to the front door. Her head falls back and hereyes close. "You will not believe the day I've had."Normally, Autumn works upstairs while I watch the kids. My job is tokeep the kids happy and fed, get them to school or activities on time, andkeep them out of her hair.When Sara was three, Hunter begged her to sign on as head of PR andMarketing. His outdoor adventure chain, Beaten Path was quickly growingand Autumn is damn good at what she does. She laid out her demands,including that she works from home at least 80% of the time, and heaccepted. The Sutter's hired me not long after to keep the kids occupied, safe,and loved during working hours.Some days, like today, heading into the Beaten Path corporate office inNYC is simply unavoidable. Thankfully, it's not too far from home, but it canbe quite the trek if there's traffic."Let me get you a glass of wine and then you can vent, 'kay?" I say,heading to the kitchen."Only if you have one too!" she says to my back, her eyes still closed."I'm on the clock, Aut!" Rolling to tiptoes, I reach high to grab two wineglasses."Shut up and grab a glass for yourself." We do this a lot. Technically,there are no set hours, so I'm always off or always on the clock, dependingon how you see it. Steve and Autumn pay me a generous salary, plus roomand board in the cottage out behind their house and, in exchange, I'm herewhen they need me.It works out perfectly for me since I get to work with the kids wheneverneeded but also have time to work part-time at the Center, my true passion.Filled glasses in hand, I make my way back to Autumn, handing one toher before plopping onto the adjacent couch. The living room, like the rest ofthe house, is decorated clean and modern, but comfy as can be. It's clear toanyone walking in the Sutter's are looking for comfort over style whendecorating their home. But they nailed both."Okay, lay it on me," I say, taking a sip of the fruity white wine andpropping my bare feet up on the coffee table. My toes are a multi-coloredmess after letting the girls paint them.She sighs, looking to see if any kids are nearby. "They're all upstairsplaying," I reassure her."Dad's declining." My heart drops to my gut. Ron Hutchins is thesweetest, most amazing grandpa on the planet. He spoils the kids like crazy,tells the best dad jokes of all time, and will stop by for a late-night bedtimestory anytime Rosie asks.Six months ago, he found an odd mole on the back of his neck, which wasimmediately diagnosed as an aggressively spreading form of melanoma. Hewent into treatment and they've been monitoring his progress since, but theroad is still long.For the past three months, he's been in an around-the-clock care facility,receiving treatment but still thriving. The decision to leave the home heraised Autumn and her brother in was a tough one all around, and Autumnfought tooth and nail to have him move into her home. He still owns thefamily home, refusing to sell it and believing he'll be back there any day.Since moving to the facility, he's been relatively stable. Last week was tobe one of the big milestones for determining how things are progressing andhow he's responding to treatment."Oh, God, Autumn, no." Tears well in my lower lashes instantly,threatening to fall. Ron is the closest thing I have to a father figure in my lifeand a man I cherish deeply."We still have a few weeks to get more information on next steps, and thedoctors said he might qualify for a new clinical trial, but it's not lookinggreat.""I'm so sorry. What can I do to help?" This family has shown me somuch kindness, love, and grace over the years. Knowing there's not much Ican do to ease their pain kills me a bit."You're doing it, Hannah. Giving the kids the best sense of normalcy,visiting Dad every week, giving him those cookies even though he totallydoes not share them, no matter what he says." She gives me a fake chidinglook. "It's why Hunter's here.""I thought it was because of the new project in town?""That was how I convinced him to come. But he needs to be close. Whoknows what will happen in the next few weeks. I know Hunter. If somethinghappened and he was too far away to get here in time... His assistant is morethan capable of handling the day-to-day stuff and forwarding everything tohim. Most meetings can be done virtually. But being in the city right now isjust too far. Things can change in a moment, and it took me four hours to gethome today.""So, why isn't he staying at your dad's? Not that I care, just seems like itwould be easier to work from an empty house."Another sigh comes from Autumn. "He has some... hesitation withstaying there and I'm not gonna push it. It won't be any extra work for you, Ipromise. He'll just lock himself in his room and live his workaholic lifestylefrom there.""Autumn, that's the least of my worries. Whatever you guys need, just letme know. You're family to me."Just then, the sound of kids screaming and fighting hits us, makingAutumn groan, the back of her head resting on the couch while her eyesclose."You sit, enjoy your wine, I've got this." I stand, patting her shoulder."Are you sure?" she asks with hope and exhaustion in her eyes."Totally. Pretend to come home in like, 10 minutes. Just relax for a bit."Walking out of the room and in the direction of the ruckus, a yell loudenough for me to hear but quiet enough not to tip off the kids comes fromAutumn. "You're the best!"ONCE AUTUMN HAS COMPLETELY unwound after work and ismentally ready to handle her hooligans, I head out to my cottage.The cottage is a small, cozy detached mother-in-law suite right behind theSutter's house. You need to walk through a maze of flowers I've plantedalong a brick pathway to get to the bright blue front door of my tiny whitehome. I call it my fairy walk, and in the back is my secret fairy garden.Gardening brings me peace and comfort, something which is evident whenyou look at the little house.Autumn and Steve gave me free rein to decorate and make it my own. It'snot much bigger than a studio apartment, but it has a small kitchen-slashdining room-slash-living room space, a tiny bathroom with a shower, and aperfectly sized bedroom. It's the perfect size for a single woman who spendsmost of her time in the "big house".The entryway and living area are painted a calming, light sage green thatmakes me want to take up yoga or something. As soon as I unlock the doorand walk in, my stress level decreases by at least ten each time.When you enter my bedroom, the walls are covered in vintage floralwallpaper I fell in love with as soon as I saw it. The room is frilly and girly,complete with a white canopy over my bed and a dusty blush pink duvetcover.It's safe to assume I've never brought a man back to this room. I go forthe manly man types as Sadie calls it, and I'm pretty sure this frothy princessroom would make all masculinity shrivel up and die.Locking the door behind me, I turn on the TV to watch reruns of myfavorite show, The Office, while I finish up the t-shirts for the kids' last dayof school before finalizing the schedule for the Center's summer campprogram.Although my bones are aching with exhaustion, it's these things I getutter joy from. Making the kids something I know will leave a lastingmemory, knowing they're going to flip when they see them - it gives me allthe feels.Summer camp at the Springbrook Hills Community Center, where I workpart-time, starts in two weeks, and completing this schedule ASAP is vital.Little do I know that tomorrow everything is going to change, for betteror worse