Little Angel

He was yelling and throwing food at dinner again last night.

“You made mashed potatoes! I hate mashed potatoes! I wanted French fries!” I’ve grown to hate the sound of his voice, not to mention the look of his hate-filled, beady little eyes.

“You had French fries yesterday, Jack,” I answered calmly.

“I don’t care!” he screamed, “I wanted French fries today! And you made mashed potatoes! It’s not fair!”

I looked at Ellen, sitting across the table from me and next to Jack. But she was looking at her phone with headphones on, as usual.

“Just because you didn’t get exactly what you wanted,” I told him, “It doesn’t mean it’s not fair.”

His pitch rose to near-ultrasound levels. “Yes, it does!” he screeched, “I hate you! You’re not my real dad, Frank!” After a pause, he picked up a heaping forkful of mashed potatoes and adjusted he way he was holding the fork. I knew what was coming. “And you’re not my real sister!” he screamed, looking at Daisy sitting next to me.

With a practiced flick of the wrist, he launched the mashed potatoes at Daisy’s head. She ducked out of the way, and the potato cannonball splattered against a framed picture on the wall. That was about three dollars’ worth of potatoes wasted. Only organic Yukon Golds from Whole Foods for this young prince. On the plus side, the picture was an old photo of Jack with his real dad.

Daisy glanced at me without saying anything. Her face remained calm, and only her eyes betrayed her hurt.

“Did you just throw mashed potatoes at your stepsister?” Ellen had finally removed her headphones and was looking at her son.

With a look back at his mother, Jack metamorphosed. His eyes seemed to grow, and even his body somehow appeared softer and less angular. His voice came out quiet and at a lower pitch. “I’m sorry, mommy,” he said, looking up at Ellen.

“Did you tell Daisy you’re sorry?”

He turned and looked at Daisy, waves of conflict running over his face. “I’m sorry, Daisy,” he muttered finally, avoiding her eyes.

“It’s OK,” she mumbled back, then, turning to me, “May I be excused?”

“Sure, sweetie,” I told her, feeling the familiar lump in my throat.

Daisy got up from the table and went to her room. “Good job for apologizing,” Ellen said, giving Jack a smile and a pat on the head before putting her headphones back on. Jack gave me a triumphant glare and then proceeded to dig into the mashed potatoes, the voracious slurping noises making his hatred of the dish seem a bit less authentic. Just another Wednesday evening at this suburban Ohio household.

***

About a year ago, I lost everything. Everything except Daisy. The day after Sarah’s funeral, I had to go to court. Three weeks after that, they collected damages. I no longer had a job, a medical license, a house, or savings. What I did have was poverty, humiliation, and the crushing guilt of knowing Sarah was dead because of me.

I wanted to kill myself. The only reason I didn’t was Daisy. After selling our house in Grandview Heights to help pay damages, I rented us a cheap apartment in Linden. I also sold the BMW 7-series, which hadn’t been collected, so we’d have something to live on. I learned to walk everywhere, to cook and clip coupons, to homeschool Daisy and use home remedies for all illnesses. At least in Linden I didn’t have to worry about running into any of my colleagues from OSU Wexner. Pardon, former colleagues.

***

He is a genius of manipulation and a master of disguise. He wears the mask of a little angel around everyone other than me and Daisy. I’ve seen his school reports. Not only does he get straight A’s, but he exhibits model behavior. When friends come over for dinner, what they compliment even more than my food is how well-behaved our kids are and how well they get along.

Only Daisy and I see the real Jack. Occasionally Ellen does as well. When she catches glimpses of the true nature of her offspring, she sighs, pretends to parent for a few minutes, and then withdraws. She has more important things to worry about, such as her lucrative urban-chic clothing business and her Netflix shows.

Earlier today it was about Legos. He was sitting on the floor of the living room, putting together a Lego Star Wars set. Daisy took a Lego City set off the shelf, one he hadn’t touched in over a week, and headed to another part of the room. I saw the moment he noticed. I saw the little angel mask fall off and the darkness come over his face.

“That’s mine!” he shouted, “You can’t play with it!”

“Did you want to play with it?” Daisy replied quietly.

Sometimes I wish she would get angry, stand up for herself, fight back. She was always a fragile flower, just like her name. After Sarah died, she became quieter, sadder, and even more fragile.

“No, I didn’t!” Jack yelled, “But you can’t either! It’s not yours, and you can’t play with it!”

I put down my laptop, giving up on doing any more job applications today. “Why not, Jack?” I asked him.

He turned and glared at me. “Because it’s not fair! She can get her own toys!”

Daisy picked up the box, still unopened, from the floor and carried it back to the shelf. Ellen walked in. Surprisingly, she had actually heard the exchange. “Now, now, Jack,” she said, “You should share. Sharing is a nice thing to do, and you’re a nice boy.”

He took a breath, and the mask was back on. “OK, mommy,” he said, his tone meek and sweet, “You can play with it, Daisy.”

Ellen smiled and kissed him on the head. “Good job! You’re being very sweet.”

As soon as she was out of the room, Jack looked back at me, speaking in a hissing stage whisper loud enough for Daisy to hear as well: “Remember how I said she can get her own toys? I know she can’t, because you’re poor. I know you’re only with us because mommy has a lot of money and you’re poor.”

I had to tuck Daisy in at bedtime tonight. She stopped asking to be tucked in years ago but started asking again, occasionally, after Sarah died. And recently, she’s been asking almost every night. After pulling the blanket up to Daisy’s chest, I leaned down and put my lips on her forehead, and she put her arms around my neck and pulled me close. “Daddy,” she whispered, “How much longer do we have to stay here?”

I felt a stab in my heart. “Oh, honey,” I told her, “We live here now. Ellen and I are married.”

She didn’t say anything for a while, just held me tightly. “I miss mom,” she said finally.

“I know you do, sweetie, I know.”

When I walked out of her bedroom, I had tears in my eyes.

***

Six months ago, my life seemed to take a turn for the better. I met Ellen at the Broken Bottle two blocks from my place. I was there because I needed to numb my pain. She was there after a meeting with a client in the neighborhood, to relax with a glass of wine.

I wasn’t looking to meet anyone, but she sat next to me at the bar, and I saw pain in her eyes that mirrored my own. We started talking and learned we had both lost our spouses. She said her husband was killed in Afghanistan. I said my wife died of cancer. Neither was true.

Three months later, when we both confessed that we had lied and then told each other the truth about our former spouses, it could have ended right there. But somehow, it didn’t. Somehow, it was OK. I understood her reasons for lying, and she understood mine. That was when I knew I was in love with her and wanted to marry her.

The four of us – Daisy and I, and Ellen and Jack, all met soon after Ellen and I started dating. He seemed like a well-behaved kid. Modestly moody, but no more than expected for an eleven-year-old boy growing up without a father. Moderately spoiled, but well within normal for a kid being raised by a single mother with a large income. Every time Ellen and I spent time with the children, everything felt pleasant and ordinary.

Two months ago, Ellen and I got married, Daisy went back to school, and Daisy and I moved out of the cheap rental in Linden and into Ellen’s opulent house in Upper Arlington, the poshest suburb of Columbus. And that’s when we really met Jack, and our life descended into hell.

***

I’m close to a breaking point. I had a good day for once, while Daisy and Jack were at school. My job applications have been going well, and I’ve had lots of requests for phone interviews. I went to a local Starbucks, even allowing myself to spend five bucks on a ridiculous espresso drink, and had one phone call after another. I felt confident.

And then I came home to find Jack in the living room watching TV and Daisy nowhere in sight. That is, until I heard the crying coming from her bedroom.

She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed, still in her school clothes. She had a pile of used tissues next to her. Her whole body was convulsing with sobs.

For a while I held her silently. Finally, she was able to talk. “He called me a crack baby,” she said.

I felt a stabbing pain in my chest. “Who, Jack?” I asked.

“Yes. And he said my mom was a crack whore.” She started crying again. After another minute she collected herself enough to say: “He said my mom was a crack whore and I’m a crack baby. And now my mom is a dead crack whore, but when I hit puberty in a year or so, I’ll be one just like her!” Those last words came out as a scream. She folded in my arms and sobbed again, loud, inconsolable, writhing in misery.

“It’s not true,” I whispered. I held her and kept repeating, “It’s not true. It’s not true.”

“Mom wasn’t a crack whore?” she asked finally.

“No, honey. Not at all. Mom was sick. She wasn’t… she wasn’t anything except very sick.”

“I miss mom,” she said.

“Me too,” I replied.

And as I said it, I knew it was true. It’s not just guilt. I miss her. I jumped into this too soon. I miss Sarah.

I walked into the home office later in the evening. Ellen was catching up on work, with headphones on, of course. As she took them off and turned toward me, I felt no need to start with pleasantries. “What have you told Jack about Sarah?” I said.

“Who?”

“Sarah. My dead former wife, Ellen.” I thought my voice came out a bit harsher than intended. And then I thought, you know what, that’s a good thing.

She seemed confused. “I’ve told him she passed away. Why?”

“Passed away how?”

“I told him, um, that she was sick. I don’t understand what…”

“You told him she was sick? Or you told him she was an addict?”

She crossed her arms defensively, straightened her posture, and hardened her facial expression. “I don’t keep secrets from my son, Frank.”

I felt the sharp pain again.

“Oh really, Ellen?” I said, “So you’ve told him what actually happened to Barry, his heroic dad?”

She turned away and put her headphones back on. “I’m done with this conversation,” she said.

***

What happened today was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone to the job interview. School was out for a local holiday, Ellen was away at work, and I was stupid enough to go to a job interview and leave them at home unsupervised.

When I came back, the house was very quiet. I saw no sign of Jack and decided he’s probably in his room and I don’t really care. Daisy didn’t answer when I called her name. I checked the kitchen, the living room, and her bedroom, to no avail.

Finally, I heard quiet whimpering, coming from somewhere on the first floor. Then I found her.

She was sitting on the floor under the dining table. She had a towel wrapped around her right arm. She was holding the outside of the towel with her left hand, biting her lip, and whining like a puppy. I crawled under the table with her and asked, “What happened?”

She looked at me for a second, then looked down and said, “I fell.”

I gently lifted her chin and made her look at me again. “Daisy?” She didn’t say anything, so I unwrapped the towel. She winced but didn’t object.

There was blood. A lot of blood. And her forearm bone sticking out, broken about two inches below the elbow. “Meat… tenderizer,” she muttered, “I took… the last cookie. From the jar. Chocolate chip. His favorite. And I… took… the last one.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I knew what people mean by seeing red. The actual hue in my case was a light blue, like a very hot flame. My entire field of vision was tinted blue. The flame cleansed and purified my vision, and I was able to see clearly.

“We’re going to the hospital,” I said.

“What if the people see you?” she whispered, “The ones who… who knew you before?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you going to tell Ellen?”

“Right now we’re going to the hospital,” I replied, “But I know what I’m going to do.”

***

I sat at his desk and watched him wake up. He blinked a few times, and then his breath became rapid and loud and his eyes darted around the room. Finally, he looked at me, eyes wide open in terror.

“Hello, Jack,” I said, “You must have a lot of questions.” I took a breath, then a sip of coffee from my mug. “For instance, ‘Why can’t I speak or move my arms and legs? Where is my mom?’” I leaned forward and looked him in the eyes. “While you slept, I injected you with a neuromuscular blocking agent, in your legs, arms, and tongue. You can breathe, but your limbs and your tongue are paralyzed. This stuff is used with anesthesia during surgery.” His eyes indicated confusion. “I used to be a doctor. Your mom never told you, did she? You think I’m some bum who married your mom for money. And you think Daisy’s mom was a junkie. Actually, we’ll get to that in a bit.

“But first, about your mom. She’s away at a fashion conference. I convinced her to go. Well, it didn’t take much convincing. She was happy to go away for a week and let me take care of the family. Which is exactly what I’m doing. Taking care of my family.” I gave him a long stare. “We have some time, so I thought we could talk about your favorite topic – what is and isn’t fair. You know what’s not fair? When your dad leaves your mom for another woman. You know, one with a smaller brain and bigger tits.” His eyes widened in shock, and I couldn’t help chuckling. “What? Don’t tell me you actually believed he died while serving overseas. For a master liar, you’re pretty naïve.”

I took a minute to sip more coffee. “But enough about you. Let’s talk about me. What’s not fair is when your wife gets hit by a car. She lives, but she has pain. Agonizing, excruciating pain. Her body heals, but the pain never goes away. She can’t sleep, she can’t work, she can’t enjoy life. And nothing helps. Well, not nothing. Oxycontin helps. But guess what? Her treating physician stops prescribing it. When there is nothing wrong with her anymore – nothing except the pain itself – he refuses to give her any more. Because we have an opioid epidemic on our hands, and there are class action lawsuits flying around, and nobody wants to get sued.

“So then you start writing her the prescriptions yourself. And then… then she gets addicted. And the legal dose doesn’t work anymore. And then she goes and buys something off the street, and it’s tainted. And it kills her. And you realize that it’s your fault she died.” I had to stop speaking and close my eyes. “And then the hospital finds out you were writing those prescriptions and throws you under the bus. You’re now a defendant in one of those lawsuits. And the court takes everything from you.” I paused and evaluated what I had said. “Actually, that is fair. Daisy’s mom died because of me, and I got exactly what I deserved. But it wasn’t fair to Daisy. And you know what else isn’t fair to Daisy? You.”

I went for another sip and realized the coffee mug was empty. “Well, Jack, looks like we’re getting to the end of this little talk. I gotta tell you, I never used to believe that a child could be truly evil. So… thank you for enlightening me.” I opened a small backpack on the floor next to me and took out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. “When your mom comes back from the conference, I’ll tell her I haven’t seen you for a few hours. Then we’ll look for you together and discover that some of your stuff is missing. A collection of stuff that shows that you ran away. Then there will be a search for you, but they’ll never find you, or your stuff. You’ll be a missing person. Your mom will move on eventually. She’ll always think that Daisy broke her arm in an accident, and that you were a good kid. A little selfish maybe, but with a good heart.”

I filled the syringe and saw his eyes focus on it. “Oh, this? Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. You won’t suffer.” I stood up and walked over to the bed. “I’ve made some terrible mistakes, but I won’t let anyone hurt my child. You’re never going to hurt my daughter again, Jack. Or anybody else. And you know what? I think this is fair.”