Daycare, After Hours

CW: References to miscarriage/domestic violence/injury

***

It's five minutes before six o'clock when Daphne bids the girl and her father goodnight. From the daycare's entrance, she watches them drive off into the dark winter evening. When they're out of sight, she sighs and returns to Wesley, the only thing standing between her and going home.

"Welp, just you and me now, kiddo," she says.

It isn't an unfamiliar situation. Among the daycare staff, Wesley Dawson's mother is known for two things: being a single parent, and arriving chronically late to pick up her son. The former they discovered upon Wesley's enrollment in the daycare. The latter realization came a few weeks after, when they factored the late fees into her bill.

Wesley looks up from his spot at the coloring table. His eyes, the same watery shade of blue as the crayon in his hand, meet hers for only a moment. Then he returns to his book. On the page Daphne can see a sun, an ocean, a family of smiling dolphins, all of which are blue. Beside the smallest of the three dolphins, the child, Wesley draws a lumpy speech bubble and begins writing something. He's painfully slow, constantly consulting the alphabet chart on the wall. And even then, his letters come out too crooked for Daphne to read, so she occupies herself by tidying up the room: pushing in chairs, sweeping crumbs from the tables, returning discarded toys to their bins. 

By the time she finishes—6:05, five minutes after closing—Wesley has moved on to a picture of a bumblebee, also blue. In this time, there's been no sign of headlights in the parking lot, which is empty except for her car and the daycare manager's. No breathless "I'm on the way" phone call from Wesley's mother. Nothing.

The silence makes Daphne feel like she's babysitting a ghost instead of a child, so she saunters over to the bookshelf. "How about story time, Wesley?" she asks, gliding her fingers along the sticky spines. "You and me. What do you say?"

Wesley's response comes in the form of his crayon, now barely a nub, scraping against the bumblebee's paper wing. 

Undeterred, she plucks a dog-eared book from the shelf, clears her throat, and says in her gruffest storyteller's voice, "Once upon a time, there were three little pigs."

Before she can go any further, Wesley stops her.

"I heard this one already," he says without glancing up. His voice is cotton soft, but the tone possesses all the curtness of an overworked waiter. Daphne recalls he was the only one who couldn't sleep during nap time this afternoon. Crankiness is to be expected. She can handle that.

"Okay." She replaces the book, grabs the one next to it. "Once upon a time, there lived two children named Hansel and—"

"Heard it," he says, dragging his fist so hard against the paper that the dolphin family is probably getting a second helping of Crayola. And again for "Cinderella" and "Rapunzel" and even "Snow White," which she has never read during story time for fear the children might start calling each other dwarfs. It occurs to her that crankiness is easier to handle at the beginning of a work shift than the end of one.

Something else occurs to her, too.

In the wake of Wesley's protests, a single book remains on the shelf. She yanks it free, careful not to reveal the little girl with the red cloak and the bread basket on the cover. Not that he's paying attention to her; he's too busy reinterpreting the color of an American black bear.

"Once upon a time, there lived a woman," she begins, slowly. It's a generic enough opener, impossible for Wesley to pinpoint its origin or plot. And then there's the allure of that grown-up word: woman. So unlike the other childish tales about boys and girls. She isn't even sure she should be telling him this story, but then, finally, he cocks his head in her direction and the feverish pace of his coloring slows, so she continues.

"Growing up, the woman loved her mother very dearly, and wanted nothing more than to have a child of her own one day, so she could show them the same amount of love and affection. Then, one day, her mother suddenly died—"

Daphne has a sudden sensation, like walking across a sheet of thin ice. She can see the ground around her fissuring under the weight of that word, too much for a five year old to process: died. The ice beneath her feet hisses.

"Dyed her hair." She backs up and narrowly avoids sinking into the watery depths. "She got it changed to a really icky color that the woman was allergic to."

"What color?" Wesley asks. He's looking at her now, his blue-black bear abandoned.

Daphne thinks for a moment. "Green. Like, vegetable-green."

Wesley shudders, nods his head understandingly.

"Because the woman was allergic, it meant she couldn't see her mother anymore. But before her mother dyed her hair, the woman promised her she would be a good mother, just like her."

She flips to the next page for dramatic effect.

"Then, one day, the woman met a man she believed to be a prince. He was handsome, with beautiful golden hair and beautiful blue eyes."

The hair dye lie has opened the floodgates for other embellishments. Daphne realizes this, realizes that the prince in this story—her ex-husband—has neither of those beautiful features, that she's describing Wesley's traits so he'll pay closer attention. 

"They fell in love instantly, the woman and the prince. She believed this was the man who would help her keep her promise to her mother. The man who would give her someone of her own to love."

She sees Wesley's focus wane. His eyes drop momentarily to the bear. It's not a shock that the boy wouldn't care for the love story bits, but it stings a little. Still, she turns the page, fast-forwarding.

"The problem is, the woman couldn't have a child. They tried, and it almost happened once, but it wasn't meant to be."

Wesley blinks. 

"Because of that, the prince drank a lot—of juice," she adds, proud of herself for turning this into a cautionary tale against sugar. "The juice made the prince angry with the woman. The prince liked to fight a lot."

Something inside Daphne shatters when she sees Wesley perk up and smile at the mention of fighting. It's the wrong kind of action to be excited about.

"Then what?" he asks.

"One time the princess fought back," she lies.

"There's a princess?"

"The woman, I mean," she says, although she wonders now why she gave her ex-husband such a dignified title while making herself a generic, everyday woman. "She fought back and she won."

Wesley nods his approval as Daphne skips several pages until she reaches the final one.

"Then the man left and never came back. The End."

It's easier telling this sanitized version of the story, scrubbed clean of the unsavory specifics. Simpler than the version she's told her therapist. Not as much yelling. Not as much cursing. Fewer bruises. But her therapist was right: talking about it does make her feel a little better.

"Wait," Wesley says. "What about the woman? She never did her promise."

"Nope, she didn't," Daphne says. "She learned she didn't need to have kids of her own to be happy. That she could be a mother in other ways."

"So what happened to her?" Wesley asks. So used to the standard endings.

"She lived happily ever after," Daphne says with a smile. But she can't tell whether or not that's one of the embellishments.

Wesley flops in his seat as though he's had a hearty Thanksgiving meal. He even lets out that satisfied "Ahh," the way the other children do after a good story time.

She returns the book, clears her throat again. "Would you like a juice box?"

Wesley straightens immediately, the model of perfect posture, but his smile betrays him. Despite the role of juice in the story, even he knows that getting two juice boxes in one day is unheard of. She hands it to him. Before anyone can change their mind, he snatches the straw from its plastic binding, thrusts it down like an astronaut planting a flag on the moon. The noise of it all, much louder than expected, makes Daphne jump. It takes her a moment to realize the source of the sound is neither the straw nor the boy but a knock at the door. Wesley's mother. Twenty-two minutes late, but hey, who's counting?

The knock comes again, from behind her instead of the front entrance, and the daycare manager, Josephine, pops her head in. Her usual grin is absent. Behind her glasses, her eyes are a blistery shade of red. A pang of guilt overcomes Daphne when Josephine surveys Wesley and the mythical second juice box. But a second later her gaze finds Daphne's, and the disappointment Daphne expects to see is replaced by something doleful.

"Good evening," she says with a tight-lipped smile. Not one to waste time, she adds, "Can you come with me for a moment, Ms. Lamont?"

"Certainly," Daphne replies. "I still have Wesley here with me, though."

"Yes," Josephine says, as though the word is an afterthought. Her eyes can't seem to choose a place to focus between Daphne, Wesley, the bookshelf, the toy bin, the crayons. "Well," she says, and her tone tells Daphne that something is wrong. 

"Wesley," she says, "I have to talk with Mrs. King. Would you like to come with me?"

It's a trick question. For all Wesley's silence, Daphne knows he hates being left alone. Same reason he always asks for someone to go with him to the bathroom. Same reason why he grabs his juice box in one hand now and latches onto Daphne's hand with his other, gripping her so tight that her skin pinkens.

Josephine peppers him with about twenty questions on the fifteen second trip from the classroom to her office. He says nothing. It's a small victory for Daphne, that Wesley feels more comfortable talking to her than her boss. 

"Can you be good and wait here while me and Mrs. King talk?" Daphne says, giving Wesley's hand a squeeze. He nods and flumps into the chair beside Josephine's office, juice box perched unsteadily between his legs, feet dangling above the floor. 

The office is pastel-bright, meticulously designed to put its occupants at ease. The walls are patterned in cloying blue zigzags, adorned with certificates and pictures of sea animals: manatees, dolphins. Daphne can count on one hand the number of times she's been in this office: the first for her interview when she was hired; the second a few years later, after her miscarriage, when she'd come to give Josephine her letter of resignation but lost her nerve; and the third when she asked for a week off following the divorce.

The cheeriness of the room seems to have no effect on Josephine, who flops down in the chair behind her desk. "Look, I'll be frank with you," she says, and her tone of voice is such a stark contrast from her usual bubbliness that Daphne feels as though she's sitting in some kind of makeshift principal's office.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks, and hopes she doesn't sound guilty. Had Josephine heard the story she'd told Wesley?

Josephine exhales. "No, no. It's just"—And it's only now that Daphne notices the stack of enrollment papers on the desk, that she sees Wesley Dawson's name written on top—"I just got off the phone. Ms. Dawson has been in an accident. A car crash."

Which is exactly what the words feel like to Daphne: a collision, an impact. Even in her chair she feels her legs buckling, her stomach free-falling.

"Oh my God," she whispers, hand over mouth. "Is she all right?"

Josephine's expression darkens. "She's in the ER now. Critical condition, they said. That's all I was told."

The image isn't hard for Daphne to conjure, though she wishes it were: Nora Dawson the queen of the late fees, Nora Dawson the single mother, coming from her second job on the other side of town, desperate to pick up her son from daycare on time, running redlight after redlight until—

"What happens now?"

"I'm going to contact his next of kin to see about one of them coming to pick him up." Josephine glances at the papers in front of her, removes her glasses, pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry to put you through this, Daphne. Look, I can handle Wesley until someone shows up. You're free to go home."

Go home and do what? Make dinner, brush her teeth, wash her face, check Facebook, and then go to sleep, all while enduring the same deadly silence she and Wesley had shared earlier? No thanks. That's the thing no one ever mentions about divorce: how quiet everything can be afterwards, how lonely. How a house can be just as bad, even if you're the only one in it.

"If it's all the same to you, Josephine," she says, "I'd like to stay with him. At least until someone shows up. You don't have to pay me extra," she adds when she sees her boss's eyebrows furrow.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Josephine nods. Daphne stands and stops midway to the door.

"Should I tell him what happened?" she asks, and it's clear from Josephine's expression that neither of them know the right answer. "I trust your judgment" is what Josephine finally says. "Do what you think is right." Which feels even worse than a straightforward Yes or No, putting the onus on Daphne.

"Be safe," Josephine says, her usual farewell. And though that seems like an inappropriate statement for the situation, Daphne replies with her usual "You too" as she shuts the door behind her.

The hallway is quiet, save for Wesley's light snoring, his own personal nap time. His head is bowed, his arms noodled. The juice box, fallen and dented, now rests on the ground, liquid slowly trickling from the bendy straw. A small puddle has formed around Wesley's chair, perfuming the air with the sugar-sweet scent of wild cherry. For a brief, harrowing moment, Daphne imagines the boy as a castaway on an abandoned island, surrounded by red waves made of Capri-Sun, the lone survivor of a take-no-prisoners tragedy.

By way of distraction, she returns to her room and grabs her chair. She lugs it through the hallway and slides it through the sticky sea of juice until it's against the wall, side by side with Wesley's chair. Then she sits.

She loses track of time. Loses track of everything except the sound of Wesley's even breathing, in and out, in and out. The sound is so soothing, so effective at stanching the silence, that she almost doesn't notice when it stops and Wesley stretches his limbs. Still rubbing the dreams from his eyes, he looks around.

"Is my Momma here?" he asks. His voice, husky with sleep, grazes every inch of the hallway.

Four words have never held such weight for Daphne, not since "I want a divorce." The temperature in the hallway plummets a few degrees.

"Not yet, Wesley," she says, a force of habit, and then she thinks it's too late for her to tell him the truth. Better one of his relatives to do it anyway, someone closer, someone who knows him better. "I'm sorry."

"Oh." Followed by the soft flutter of his lashes, the downward slope of his dream-filled eyes.

In the absence of Wesley's snoring, Daphne can feel that dreaded silence creeping into their conversation, asserting itself. She searches for a way to combat it, shuffles through the mental Rolodex of exchanges she's had today, this week, looking for something she can talk about, something to buy time until someone shows up. The list of topics appear in compact rows: Games, Sports, TV, Food, until, at last, the entryway: Books.

"What did you write earlier?" she asks. "I didn't mean to spy on you, but I noticed you were writing something in the coloring book. With the dolphins. What did you have the little one say?"

Wesley leans back, stares at the ceiling. He looks as though he's sifting through forty years of memories instead of forty minutes. Through the door they can hear the edges of Josephine's plaintive, muffled voice. Then, like a match being lit, a sudden spark of remembrance.

"He was thanking his Momma and Daddy."

Daphne turns to him. "Thanking them for what?" she asks, her voice porcelain-fragile.

"For the swim," Wesley says, still looking up. "And for being there. And he said he loves them, even when they show up late sometimes."

A police siren whoops outside, startling Daphne. The moon is playing hide-and-seek behind a web of clouds. She heard something earlier on the news, something about snow. She thinks she can see a few flakes now through the window, seed-small. Wesley's family is coming, but it will never be soon enough. The juice on the floor soaks through her shoes. She scoots closer to him, a second island castaway, another survivor.

"Are you cold?" she asks, but that's not her real question.

"No."

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Do you have to go potty?"

"No."

"Would you like another story?"

He looks up at her, a blizzard of sleep and restraint swirling behind those crayon-blue eyes. Then it's gone. His eyes are closed, his head rolling against Daphne's arm in a nod, his ear tilted to her mouth. Yes, he would like another story. He deserves that much.

So she takes a breath and lowers her voice and begins the best way she knows how:

"Once upon a time, there lived a woman who loved her son very, very much."