Read Daddy Issues by Kate Goldbeck Chapter 29 – “Can you watch Kira for a few hours?”
I open my eyes. Nick is standing over my pool lounger with his backpack slung over his shoulder. I hear Kira cannonball into the formerly placid pool.
“Right now?”
“You don’t work on Mondays, right?”
“Um—”
“I hate myself for asking and I swear, this is not something I do. My assistant manager has a personal emergency and there’s no one to cover until five. Kira might even stay at the pool the entire time. You can keep reading. Or napping. Or, maybe don’t nap while watching her, but I’ll tell her not to bother you.” I hesitate. “Shit. You have plans. Do you have plans? You know what? Never mind. It’s okay, I’ll just—”
“I was supposed to go with my mom and Perry to measure the wedding gazebo.”
“You should do that. It sounds important.”
Again, Romily’s voice mocks me in my head, and all her stupid data about stepmothering and axels of complication or whatever it was. It will come up. It’s a statistical certainty. But this is a different situation. An emergency. Right?
“You know what? It’s fine. I can watch her.”
“You’re amazing.” He waits until Kira puts her goggles on and goes underwater and then kisses me. “You’re my savior.”
For the next ten minutes, I really do feel amazing.
I am the best girlfriend. Understanding, flexible, responsible.
And then, Kira says, “I’m bo-ored.”
“Do you recognize this room?” I ask.
Kira looks around the office and shakes her head.
“It’s the same as yours. Kinda weird, right? Same layout, totally different stuff.”
“This is your bed?” she asks, immediately jumping onto the daybed in a way that seems likely to collapse it. I try not to let it bother me that she’s still a little damp from the pool and rolling around on my quilt and putting her wet hair on my pillows. “It’s small!”
“I know. But my mom wants to be able to use this room, too, so it’s hard to fit a big bed in here and still have space for everything else.”
Is it my imagination, or does she pity me for living in my mom’s office? Kira takes another look around the room before returning her full attention to her tablet.
“Can I have your Wi-Fi password?”
I hesitate for a moment. Honestly, it probably would be easier to just let her watch YouTube and play games for several hours than try to get creative. But I’m a responsible adult now. And I’m worried that if we launch directly into zoning out on the tablet, I’ll have nothing to offer when she inevitably gets bored watching videos about making slime.
“Let’s go through the comics first, okay?”
She shrugs. It’s not quite the enthusiastic reaction I expected when Nick told me how much she liked the ones I lent her a couple of weeks ago.
I struggle to get one of the long boxes off the shelving unit. The whole fixture is slanting to the left. Maybe Nick was right about the wall anchors.
Kira immediately starts digging through the box.
“Some of these are worth a lot of money,” I tell her. “So be care—”
“Like how much?”
“It depends on the issue and the condition—if it looks like it’s brand-new or like it’s been read a bunch of times. We want to keep them looking as new as possible, so don’t take any of these out of the plastic bags unless I say it’s okay. Sound good?”
“ ’kay,” she says.
I start by pulling out some kid-friendly things, but Kira doesn’t seem interested in Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur. With every character I suggest, she asks about their love life.
“This is Kitty Pryde,” I say. “She has a psychic bond with a dragon. And in this book, there’s this amazing arc with her and Colossus—”
“Is that her boyfriend?”
“This one’s kinda fun,” I say, trying to pivot to a book without love interests. “Scarlet Witch and Vision host Thanksgiving and they invite some fellow mutants and Avengers and everyone shows up in costume except Magneto. He’s just, like, wearing a sweater. I always thought it was hilarious that this dramatic supervillain shows up in a casual outfit because he’s trying to be a normal father and everyone else is in spandex. Like, this guy is in his swim trunks at Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Whose dad is he?” Kira asks, flipping the pages.
“Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver are twins. And they found out right before this issue that their dad was Magneto. So that made Thanksgiving a little awkward.”
“Did he do something bad to them?”
“Oh yeah,” I reply. “He was terrible to them for a long time when it seemed like he was totally evil. Later on, we started to learn more about him and why he became a bad guy. And eventually he kind of turned into a good guy,” I say. “He’s my dad’s favorite.”
“The bad guy who was mean to his kids is his favorite?”
I stare at Kira, letting her simple, but deadly potent, choice of words permeate.
I decide to put the comics away and dig out the bin of art supplies I haven’t touched in years. Crayola markers would probably be more kid-friendly, but Kira seems interested in what she calls “real art stuff.”
I pull out my sketch pads in various sizes, feeling the different weights and textures of the papers. My pencil cases, stuffed with drawing implements of various lengths—my favorites sharpened over and over again, down to barely usable nubs: Tombow Mono 100s, Faber-Castell 9000s, Mars Lumographs.
“These pencils don’t have erasers,” Kira says.
“One of my drawing instructors wouldn’t let us use erasers,” I say. “She said erasing lines slows you down. You’re supposed to commit to each line.” We were supposed to look at our mistakes, not hide them.
The perfectionist in me never liked the look of erased lines anyway. Rubbing away the graphite always leaves this blurry ghost of a drawing. Sometimes I’d just start over.
“That’s dumb,” Kira says, confident as usual in her opinion. “I change my mind all the time when I’m drawing.”
I pick up one of the pencils, almost testing to see if it still feels natural to me. If it’s still something that could bring me joy, or too tied to that feeling of failure. The embarrassment of genuinely believing I was talented at this, only to learn that I was “derivative.”
I push the tip of the pencil against a page from one of my old sketchbooks. There’s no divine inspiration. No lightning-flash, aha moment. I have no idea what to draw now.
Kira has no such problem. I watch her sketch away and turn to the box with my drawings. It’s obvious to me now that while I remember creating a ton of different sketches—animals, landscapes, fashion drawings—none of them is represented here. I only bothered to give my dad the drawings of subjects I knew would appeal to him: his big truck, the sign that he’d put up at his estate sales, and of course all those sketches of Magneto. I got so much practice drawing those particular curves and proportions of that helmet. I bet it’s locked in my muscle memory. Derivative, indeed.
“I drew Kitty Pryde,” Kira says, showing me her paper.
“I like that pink streak in her hair,” I say.
“It’s ’cause she has…those feelings,” Kira says. “It shows up in her hair.”
“What feelings?” I’m impressed at the way Kira is already inventing lore for characters she barely knows.
“She has hot pink feelings.”
“Hot pink feelings?” I repeat. Is this a Gen Alpha saying?
“Yeah. Like…you know.” Kira moves her hand around in a way that provides zero helpful context.
But intuitively, I know that there’s only one subject you can indicate by playing coy with the vaguest possible hand gesture and still have the other person understand.
“Like…boyfriend-girlfriend?” I say, because it seems like the safest term.
“No,” she says. “Because sometimes it can be boyfriend-boyfriend. Or sometimes they’re lesbians. There are a lot of lesbians in this story. So many.”
“You’re absolutely right.” I nod rapidly, silently scolding myself for defaulting to heteronormativity in front of an impressionable child.
Kira continues. “You know how animals mate?” I’m terrified that she has just used the term mate. “And then they have a baby?”
“Uh-huh,” I say cautiously. Tread carefully.
“It’s kinda like that.”
I try to stop my face from re-creating the grimace emoji expression.
“She likes someone?” I pause. I’m sweating, because this conversation seems so dangerous. “Like, like-like?”
Kira rolls her eyes at me and I feel like such a loser. “No, like…hot pink feelings.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Cool. I get it.”
I don’t get it.
“Are you my dad’s girlfriend?” she asks. And I need to be clear about this: despite the question mark, it’s not an inquiry. It’s an accusation.
And I’m frozen. I look down at the comic book in my hand.
Should we have talked about this? Why hasn’t any permutation of Nick, Kira, and me talked about this? I feel a pang of anger toward Nick for putting me in this position. I shouldn’t be the one to address this with her! I don’t know how to explain this to a kid! I’m sweating just talking about fictional characters.
The longer she stares at me, the more obvious it becomes that there’s something I don’t know how to say. Kids are actually so intuitive. They haven’t built up the layers of bullshit that keep adults from seeing the reality of a situation. And I know that’s what’s happening right now.
“Maybe it’s something we can all talk about—”
“I don’t want my dad to cheat on my mom.”
“Oh.” I sit with that statement. “That’s totally reasonable. I was nervous about my mom or dad dating other people when they got divorced. I was afraid that if they spent time with a new person it would mean I’d be less important. The thing about parents is that they don’t run out of space in their hearts. You know how some families have, like, two or three kids, or more? The parents love all those kids, right? It’s kind of the same when a new person comes into your life. My mom loves me because I’m her daughter, and for a lot of my life it was just her and me in our house together. But a couple years ago, she met Perry, and now she loves them, too. And the three of us live in this apartment and it’s okay. She loves me the same amount. People’s hearts are stretchy.”
Kira looks back down at her paper, contemplating something.
“Do you want to have a baby?” she asks finally. Her skill at pivoting conversations is unmatched. I have whiplash.
“I’m too young to have a baby!”
Kira’s face scrunches up. “No, you’re not.”
I try not to feel wounded by this reaction. I regret not investing in more skin care products.
“My dad’s too old to date,” she says. “Kissing people when you’re that old is ew.”
“Oh, come on, that’s not true. I think it’s—”
KNOCK! KNOCK!
I look at Kira. “Did you secretly order a pizza?”
“I don’t have DoorDash on my tablet,” she says, as if this is a great injustice.
She trails me to the door, screaming “Dad!” when I swing it open to reveal a very tired-looking Nick.
“You finished early?” I ask.
“I told you it would be quick,” he says. “I’m a man of my word.”
“At least there’s one of you in this world,” I mumble.
Kira runs back into the office. “Dad, come see my hybrids and furries!”
Nick stifles a laugh and gives me a quick squeeze. “Seriously. Thank you.”
Kira lifts up one of her drawings to show him, rattling off all the character names and their various alliances and frenemies.
Something catches my eye on the floor. I hadn’t noticed before, but she’d been using a comic book as a flat surface underneath her drawing paper. I grab it off the floor. Across the drawing of Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson’s wedding, I see the outlines of her drawings where the markers bled through onto my pristine copy of Amazing Spider-Man Annual #21.
“Fuck!”
They both turn to look at me as I hold up the book.
“Oops,” Kira says, some realization dawning on her face.
“The one thing I asked was to leave these in the clear plastic bags because they’re valuable,” I say.
“I know, but I wanted to look inside that one because it has a wedding on the front.”
“It’s ruined, Kira!” The volume of my voice is a bit alarming, but I’m pissed.
“Maybe we can find another copy,” Nick says.
“This is a collectible! It was in near-mint condition.”
Kira rocks back and forth on her heels.
“I’m sure she didn’t realize,” Nick says, bending down and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Kira, what do you say?”
“I’m sow-wy,” she says in that disingenuous baby talk voice.
Something inside me snaps.
“No!” I yell. “You’re too old for a baby talk apology. Say you’re sorry to me in a normal voice, like you mean it.”
“Sam!” Nick stands all the way up, facing me. “Come on, it was an accident.”
“No, it’s rude,” I exclaim. “She’s acting like a spoiled brat!”
“Don’t raise your voice at my kid, okay?”
“I’m so-rry,” Kira yells.
And then she bursts into tears.
After Nick takes her home, I decide that I need more room to angrily pace than my mom’s apartment allows.
I’ve only done a few laps down the breezeway when Nick opens his door and follows me.
“Hey, don’t leave.” He starts jogging to catch up.
“I made a little kid cry, Nick. I can’t even babysit.”
“She’s okay. She’s sitting on the couch with her tablet.”
“Oh.” I’m a little annoyed at how quickly Kira’s gotten over it when I’m still throwing a fit. “Well, I’m not okay. And you could’ve backed me up.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. But kids break things. They ruin things. And they’re not very good at taking responsibility, especially when adults are yelling at—”
“I was yelling because she wasn’t actually apologizing!”
“Come on,” he says, leading me farther down the hall. He opens the door to the closet with the trash chute and motions for me to enter.
It smells like rotting food, and when he closes the door behind me, I feel even more trapped here.
“I don’t want to do this,” I say, trying not to breathe through my nose while borderline hyperventilating.
“You don’t want to do what? Talk to me.”
It bursts out of me: “I’m not ready to be a stepmom.”
“Whoa.” Nick’s concerned look turns to confusion. “I’m not asking you to be a stepmom. I’ve never asked you that. I’m not even legally divorced yet.”
I look at him. “Wait, what?”
“We’ve been separated for a couple years, but we haven’t gotten around to filing yet. I wasn’t trying to hide it, I just…honestly, I don’t really think about it and I also wish I hadn’t said any of this in a trash room.”
“Okay,” I say, wanting to take a deep breath, but also very much not wanting to inhale garbage fumes. “We’re coming back to that later.”
“Stepmom is so many miles down the road.”
“Yes, but it’s the reality of your life. Sooner or later, that’s the endgame. And I traumatized your child.”
“She’s not traumatized! Honestly, I fucking hate that baby talk voice, too,” he says. “But you were a little scary. I mean, I’ll pay you whatever the comic was worth—”
“Forget about the comic.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “In a normal situation, I wouldn’t have even met Kira yet. I’ve researched it. Or, Romily researched it. Because this can go really wrong. It’s confusing for kids. We might’ve already made this more difficult for her because of all those questions. She’s probably making up stories in her head now.”
“Then it’s time for me to sit down with her and talk about it as openly as I can.”
“But you haven’t done that! Listen to me.” I grab his arms. “You’re a relationship guy. You’re, like, a serious Wife Guy.”
“Don’t be condescending.”
“I’m not. I’m saying you’re a good person. You’re the best person. And you deserve so much. You should have someone to hold you at night and give you massages because your back hurts. And you should definitely be fingering someone regularly because oh my God.”
“I want those things! Why do you think I’m arguing with an extremely agitated woman in a trash closet?”
“You need a grown-up,” I say. “With a real life and adult responsibilities—”
“You’re an adult, Sam.”
“—and her own place to live, who you know will be here in six months. That’s the person who should be meeting your daughter.”
“I don’t want those things with someone else. I want them with you.” He tucks an unruly lock of hair behind my ear. Exactly the sort of gesture that forces me to blink back my own tears. “I don’t know what that looks like. But I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”
I don’t know who moves first, but I’m clinging to him and he’s squeezing me so tight it hurts.
“Kira hates me now,” I whisper.
“She doesn’t. Kids get over these things so much faster than adults.”
But as warm and comforting as his body feels, there’s another glaringly obvious truth that neither of us is acknowledging.
“There is a very good chance that this isn’t going to end well,” I say into his shoulder.
“I know,” he says, stroking my hair.
“I don’t want to hurt a dad.”
“I’ll take that risk. And if you do leave,” he says, “I’d rather spend the remaining time with you than sitting here by myself wishing I was with you and being both sad and alone. And even if I feel like total shit after you’re gone, I’m never going to regret telling you how I feel. And hearing you say it.” He grins. “Even if I had to drag it out of you.”
“I enjoyed it,” I say. “I have hot pink feelings.”
“Mmm. What are those?”
“I can’t tell you the definition, but I’m pretty sure I have them.”
“You woke me up. And now I’m fucked.” He kisses me on the forehead. “And I’m really grateful for that.”
“I’m like Sleeping Beauty’s prince,” I muse. “I gave you true love’s blow job.”
“Actually,” he says, “I think it started with true love’s raspberry.”
