Page 10 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
Chapter four
Charles
My head hurts and my heart hurts. Another nanny has been and gone. I can hear Manuela and Sherry talking in the kitchen, although I can’t understand what they are saying.
Cece and Gidget, her mentally challenged poodle puppy, are romping up and down the hall, making enough racket for three kids and a pack of dogs.
Gidget is a standard poodle, now almost six months old. Emily had purchased the little beast for Cece and given her to her as a Christmas gift. I would not get rid of anything dear to Cece, especially if it came from her mother, but sometimes I want to wring the wretched thing’s neck. Perhaps I should have been glad of the dog and the cat. Without them, Cece would be an extremely lonely little girl. But they complicated things.
“Cece! Lunchtime!” Manuela calls from the kitchen.
“Come on, Gidget!” Cece yells, racing toward the kitchen. The dog races ahead of her, barking all the way.
Then I hear the first sensible words of the day, coming from Sherry, of all people. “I’ll take him out and feed him, Cece. You know Mr. Charles doesn’t like him to beg at the table.”
No, I sure didn’t like it. What is more, Gidget is just tall enough to filch tidbits off the table if you look away from your plate for even a minute.
The dog walker hasn’t been by, either, which means I’ll probably have to ask Sherry to walk the dog. It isn’t her job. I’ll pay her a bonus for doing it, but it still isn’t her responsibility. Why couldn’t people just do what they were supposed to do?
There is a quick patter of little feet down the hall, and Cece swings around the edge of the door. “Daddy, Manuela says lunch is ready, and would you like to eat at the dining table or have your’s on a tray in here?”
I should go to the dining room and eat with my daughter. But my head hurts. I’m debating when my desk phone chimes. “Tell her I’ll need a tray in here, Punkin. You can watch one of your shows while you eat, all right?”
“I’ll miss you, Daddy,” she says. “But I like watching my shows.”
She skips off, and I answer the call. “Charles Emory.”
“Mr. Emory,” the voice says, “We’re going to have to close the plant, and fumigate . . .”
From there on, the messages almost sound like the “wonk, wonk, wonk . . .” sounds the adults for the Charles Schultz cartoons always made. I’d heard this same story so many times in the last few weeks that I even knew the correct responses to make without thinking about them.
It isn’t just the loss of productivity. It is the endless toll on my workforce. Even with insurance and unemployment, my people are hurting. Every time I hear of a manager, lineworker, or even a part-timer coming down with whatever they are calling the vile disease this week, it is almost like hearing that Emily was hospitalized all over again. It was like waking up in a tent, thick with dust and buzzing flies, and hearing that the men riding in the back of the transport truck I had been driving were all dead or seriously injured.
I have a script written out for myself so I don’t forget to say any of the right words. I go through it now, reassuring the plant manager that we will do what we can, however we can, and that we will try to get people back to work as soon as possible. Then I hang up the phone and stare out the window.
“Daddy?” I turn. Cece stands in the doorway. “Did somebody die? Will Mommy meet them in Heaven and take care of them?”
I walk over and sit down in my comfortable, ergonomic office chair before holding out my arms to my daughter. “Not this time, but someone is sick and we have to close down a factory and scrub it all over so no one else gets sick.”
She runs to me and climbs up into my arms. “I’m sorry. But you will make it better for them, won’t you?”
My head throbs as if it will fall off. “I’ll do the best I can,” I say.
“Ok, that’s all you can do,” Cece says, parroting back my own words. “Just do the best you can.”
I hold her in my arms. She should not be having to hear me take these calls and give out the directions that may or may not make a difference. Why the fuck couldn’t I get a damned nanny that would stay and take care of my beautiful little girl?
“Where’s Gidget?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
“Sherry is taking her walkies,” Cece says. “The dog walker man called to say he couldn’t come today.”
I sigh, holding onto Cece, her warm little body reminding me that I had responsibilities. Unlike the dog walker, I can’t just call and say I wasn’t showing up. Even if I didn’t love her more than anything else in my world, Daddy is a forever title.
Manuela comes down the hall, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I’m sorry, Mr. Charles, but I thought it best that Sherry go ahead and take Gidget for her exercise. Miss Cece, isn’t it time for your nap?”
Cece turns to me. “Do I have to, Daddy?”
I neatly avoid answering the question directly. “Let’s go put your pretty lights on, and I’ll read ‘Napping House’ to you, all right?”
