Well, the social worker probably had gotten an earful.
I tried not to think about that.
In the bedroom, I checked my phone. I almost dialed Neil, but it wouldn’t do any good. He needed space.
And I’d already left five voicemails.
I picked out my green I.D. Sarrieri halter-neck one-piece because although it was more suited to looking good than actually swimming in it, I needed the boost of feeling pretty. I pinned my hair in a loose bun and used a makeup remover wipe on my eyes so there would be no unfortunate raccoon effect.
Olivia strutted into our huge closet with one arm already out of her shirt. El-Mudad followed behind her with her adorable red-and-white polka-dot tankini. “You take it from here. I’ll meet you both downstairs.”
As I helped Olivia into her suit, she asked, “Where’s Afi?”
“Afi is…” I began, wondering what I should tell her that wouldn’t be an outright lie. “Afi went somewhere.”
“But where?” She pointed to the massive collection of footwear on one wall. “He didn’t wear any of his fancy shoes.”
“Frickin’ Sherlock Smallfry here.” I pressed my fingertips to my forehead. Neil had left in a pair of kick-around-the-house loafers, something he rarely did. Of course, Olivia would have noticed. She noticed everything. “He must have forgotten his fancy shoes. I bet he feels ridiculous.”
She giggled. “He’ll think his feet were naked!”
That pretty much summed up Neil’s relationship with fine Italian leather. If Olivia was this observant already, she was going to be so cool when she grew up.
She was going to be so much like her mother.
Unexpected tears choked me, and I turned away. Clearing my throat, I said, "Let's get you changed."
El-Mudad had been right; swimming was a good distraction for Olivia and Rashida from just waiting and worrying. I didn't forget that Neil was out there, probably making destructive choices, but nothing short of a memory-erasing machine would do that. I took my phone with me, in case Neil called. He didn't. I only checked my texts seven times.
After an hour in the pool, I took Olivia to get changed. I rechecked my phone. No texts, no calls I'd inexplicably missed. I made sure my ringer was on, anyway.
Dry and dressed, Olivia and I went to the dining room, where Rashida, Amal, and El-Mudad waited.
I slid my phone onto the table beside my placemat. El-Mudad raised an eyebrow. I ignored him.
"Why are we eating in here?" Rashida asked, quickly adding, "And where's Neil?"
The answer to the first question was tied directly to the second question, which I didn’t want to answer. We’d chosen the dining room because if Neil came home drunk during dinner, the kids wouldn’t see him.
Amal said something to her sister in Arabic, and El-Mudad scolded her in kind.
Quietly, under her breath, Rashida said, "That's not true."
"Look, Olivia," I said, changing the subject and reaching for the bowl of salad on the table. "Julia put the purple tomatoes in!"
We passed the bowl around and filled our plates, then ate mostly in silence.
“A lady came to my school today and talked to me,” Olivia announced suddenly.
El-Mudad and I exchanged glances. He cleared his throat. “Did she?”
Olivia nodded, pleased to have the attention of the table.
“What did she want to talk to you about?” I asked.
“She said she was checking to make sure I was safe,” Olivia prattled happily, wielding her fork like a serial killer’s knife to stab at her food. “If my house is safe and my people around me are safe and nice. And I said yes, and I said she was nice too. I think she was nice because she’s the police.”
“The police aren’t nice, Olivia,” Amal said flatly, dropping her fork. “Tell Julia I'm going to eat in my room. If it’s not still ripped apart.”
“Amal!” El-Mudad called after her. She didn’t return, and he didn’t follow her.
Olivia’s little face looked so wounded.
I reached over and patted her back. “She isn’t mad at you, honey.”
Olivia tilted her head and gave me a doubtful look.
Rashida seemed so small and afraid as if she were shrinking in on herself under the weight of her growing dread.
It wasn’t until I’d lived as an adult in a house with children that I understood just how much can be communicated with furtive looks. However, as a child around adults, I’d learned that even though I didn’t know what those furtive looks meant, they never meant anything good.
El-Mudad and I shared one before he explained things in a way that hopefully, Olivia could understand. “The lady who came to talk to you is called a social worker. And you’re right. It is her job to make sure you’re safe. You didn’t do anything wrong, and you didn’t make Amal mad. She had a bad day.”
“And she’s cranky?” Olivia asked, her forehead wrinkled with concern.
“Yeah. She’s just cranky,” I reassured her.