How to Save a Life

Maisie giggles and screeches when I lift my knees off the counter stool I’m sitting on and bounce her higher.

“Gone, gone, gone. The dictator is gone.”

“Gone!” she yells.

“That’s right baby girl.”

“Not quite,” the man who pays my salary says, standing in the threshold of the kitchen with dare I say a ghost of a smile on his face. “Forgot my tablet.”

I bury my smile in the baby’s neck and plant a kiss there. Retrieving it off the kitchen counter, he leaves for good this time.

Today is the first official day of us braving the great outdoors. Maisie and I have decided on a stroll in the Park. I’ve even scoped out a playground not too far from the apartment. Jordan’s irrational fear of just about anything harm related has not lessened one bit and I try not to trigger it which is why we haven’t gone out yet. This is a shining example of how my day generally goes…

Grim: What are you doing right now?

Me: Showing Maisie how to build a pipe bomb.

Grim: Is she wearing the designated safety attire for handling explosives?

Me: *sends picture of Maisie getting her dirty diaper changed wearing a helmet.*

Grim: I’m impressed with your progress. Carry on.

The only time he seems to have a sense of humor is in written form. I’ll take whatever I can get.

I strap Maisie in her stroller, pack drinks and snacks––something I’ve learned to always have on hand lest I get tears from her I’m not very well-equipped to handle––and out we go. It’s a beautiful day and New Yorkers are enjoying everything the Park has to offer. We stroll by joggers and Rollerbladers. Sunbathers. People on bikes. A horse drawn carriage.

“Horsey!” Maisie shouts, pointing at the animal. Which sounds more like “Hosey!”

Then, “Dog!” and “Birdie,” or more accurately, “Buhdi.”

It’s kind of sick how much secondhand joy I’m getting from her excitement. I’m finally starting to understand why people have kids. I should’ve taken her out a week ago, but I was reluctant thanks to Grim and his phobia.

We make it to the playground by late morning and it’s already packed with kids of all ages, their nannies, and two stay-at-home dads.

“Which one’s yours?” the dark-haired girl sitting close to me on the edge of the sandbox asks. She’s been on her phone, texting, for the last fifteen minutes––basically since I’ve been here––so her question surprises me.

“The girl with the pink helmet.”

Maisie’s currently attempting to take a little plastic beach shovel away from a boy around her age. She’s much more assertive with other children than I anticipated she’d be which makes me oddly proud. He slaps her in the head with it, but she’s wearing the helmet so we’re all good. The hell I’m going to tell Jordan, however. All he’d need is encouragement and he’ll have her wearing an entire peewee hockey outfit.

“Mine’s the boy.”

I’m keeping a close eye on the situation. Before an all-out brawl breaks out. Maisie’s getting a strange look in her big eyes.

“Does yours eat poop?”

“Excuse me?” I turn to get a better read on this girl. Is she right in the head?

“Poop. I’m Clea, by the way. That’s Madison.” She motions to a blonde girl around my age on the other side. She’s talking to one of the stay-at-home dads, not paying attention to her kid. “Hers does. Mine does occasionally. We all laugh about it.”

Is she for real? “What do you mean by poop?”

“I mean some of them stick a hand in their diapers and––”

“Don’t,” I implore. That’s the last image I want in my head. “No. Maisie does not eat poop.” Thank the Lord. I don’t think I like this girl’s attitude either. She seems to be taking joy in it. “So…you just let them? Like…aren’t you supposed to change the diaper when it’s dirty?”

“The bitch didn’t even give me the Fourth of July off. I had a house in the Hamptons with ten of my friends and I couldn’t go. Dirty diapers are discretionary.”

This is so wrong on so many levels that I don’t even know how to respond.

My iPhone rings with a FaceTime call, another one of Jordan’s annoying habits. Why can’t he just text like normal people.

“Hi,” I answer.

“Where are you?” he says right out of the gate and it’s not curiosity I’m sensing. He’s wearing a slight frown already.

“Outdoors. I know, very risky to breathe fresh air.”

“Riley…,” he warns. I’ve been testing his boundaries as much as Maisie has lately. It’s impossible not to when he’s so painfully rigid.

“Let me see, Maisie.” He’s checking to see if I’ve been following orders. How predictable. I can’t imagine he trusts anyone which is why he seems to have a serious dearth of friends.

I turn the phone around, onto the sandbox where Maisie and the little boy are still working out who gets to keep the shovel longer. While the camera is on her, the little boy rips it away.