Page 30 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
When there’s no answer I try again. “Ladies?” There we go. That feels right.
I pause at Immy’s temporary room. It’s quiet, but there’s dim light coming under the door. Twisting the knob slowly, I open it just enough to peek inside. The bedside lamp is the only light in the room, casting a warm glow around a scene that makes my ribcage feel way too small for whatever my heart and lungs are doing.
Sunny is propped against the headboard, with a huge picture book flopped on her tan legs as though she fell asleep mid-story. Immy is tucked under her arm, her mouth drooping open, and Sunny’s glasses sliding down her nose. My daughter’s wild, white-blonde curls are damp and tamed into two neat braids on either side of her pink cheeks. She looks peaceful and childlike, not like the mini-adult she so often tries to be. Hairy is curled in a huge ball on the carpet next to the bed, dead to the world.
Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I tiptoe closer to get a picture. I don’t want to forget this. I frame the shot and capture the image, immediately sending the photo to my mother because nothing makes her happier than seeing her granddaughter content. Selfishly, I also know this will earn me some much-needed goodwill.
I stare at the photo on my phone screen. This one's a keeper—everything about it. I zoom in, since it’s a cheap way to get a better look at Sunny without gawking at her in real life. Objectively speaking, Sunny is beautiful. Her face is perfectly proportioned and symmetrical. Her lips are full and pink, and her dark eyelashes are long. Technically speaking, she’s a knockout. Perfection. Whatever.
It’s her hair that gets my attention tonight, though. It’s twisted into two braids that match Imogen’s. Sunny has been so good for her. It’s strange to think about, but if I could’ve chosen the traits I want in a mother for Imogen, Sunny has all of them. She is incredible. And those braids make me think other distracting thoughts. Let’s just say, if Oliver could read my mind right now, he’d burst through the wall like the Kool-Aid man. But when I zoom in, I notice something on her face. My eyes flick to the woman on the bed and I step closer to inspect in real life.
A fewlong scratches run down her cheek, surrounded by swollen red skin. I scan the rest of her and see that her knees are also marred with angry crimson gashes that look fresh. I don’t like this. I want to erase it all with my fingertips. I don’t like seeing her hurt. Everything inside of me is screaming, “Who did this to you?!” like some dumb romance movie cliché.
But it’s true.
I need to know who or what did this to Sunny so I can destroy it.
“Are you mad?” Immy’s soft voice breaks the silence, startling me.
“Hey, Im,” I smile at her. “I’m not mad. Why would I be?”
“Your face looks pretty mad,” she whispers. It’s obvious she’s trying not to wake Sunny, which is sweet. She pulls the glasses off the end of her nose and hands them to me the way kids do when they’re done with something. I look at the frames in my hand. How can an innocuous object turn sexy so fast when it’s on Sunny’s face?
“I’m kinda wondering what happened to her cheek and her knees. How’d she get all scratched up?”
“I guess Hairy pulled her down.”
“Hairy did this?” I don’t mean to, but I raise my voice and it wakes the mutt. Her ears try to perk under their droopy weight. “Hairy,” I scold her. Her tail thumps on the carpet.
“Yep. We went hiking today and Hairy was following me and pulled Sunny down by the leash,” she whispers through a long yawn. “Hairy was chasing me. That’s when Sunny fell down. But guess what?” Her eyes go wide and she draws out the pause for maximum drama. She is definitely my child. “I found out that Sunny has never went on a plane,” she murmurs with the gravity of a CIA informant.
I have about a billion questions, as I often do when I interpret Immy’s stories. First off, I am unreasonably angry with the dog. What do I do with her? Second, how is it possible for someone to reach their twenty-seventh birthday without ever riding in an airplane? That can’t be right.
“She told you she’s never been on a plane?” I circle the bed to sit on the opposite corner from Sunny’s feet.
“Yep. She said she never goes anywhere and her life is super boring.” Another yawn.
“She said that?” I need to know if this is Imogen’s commentary on Sunny’s life, or did Sunny say her life is boring? And why do I care? I guess I hate the thought of Sunny being down about her life. A pure sunshine person deserves to enjoy her life. She shouldn’t be bored.
“Yep. But I told her she needs to go on a plane. Remember when we went to that place where we rode our bikes all over, and they had really good ice cream? We should take Sunny there. Then she could go on a plane. And we could see Mormie, and Sunny could meet her!”
Mackinac Island with my mom—that’s what she’s talking about. I’ve taken her there a few times with my parents and she loves it because it means undivided attention, which is Immy’s favorite thing. My mother, Tillie—or Mormie, as Imogen calls her—is one of those grandparents who makes everything magical. Immy worships her. A familiar twinge of guilt unsettles my stomach. I need to take Immy home more often.
“That would be fun. There are a lot of reasons people don’t go on planes, though. Maybe Sunny wouldn’t be able to go.” Let’s manage those expectations before Immy ends up arranging our marriage. She already wants her to meet my parents and join us on the family vacation, for heaven’s sake.
“I hope she goes. I’m going to call Mormie tomorrow to tell her about it.” Another big yawn, followed by fluttering eyelids. She’s almost out.
“Let me talk to her, okay? Get some sleep, love.” I lean in to kiss her forehead and her eyes stay closed.
I sit on the end of the bed thinking. There are two possibilities: Either this conversation will be forgotten by tomorrow, or Imogen’s newest fixation will be a trip to Mackinac Island with Sunny, and itwill be all anyone hears about. Realistically, that would be easier to pull off than tickets to a Harry Styles concert. I don’t know what to hope for. I like Sunny. I want her. I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge that. But setting aside the fact that she’s the nanny and off-limits, I don’t have room in my life for anything—especially anything serious. I’m Indiana Jones-ing, here. But then I look at their matching braids and I want to do something stupid, like get on a plane and take a family vacation.
Ugh. People snap their wrists with rubber bands when they’re breaking bad habits. Maybe every time I have unrealistic, inappropriate thoughts about Sunny I need to crack a whip à la Indiana Jones. That’s probably what it would take to sever this connection I feel to her—a whip crack. Or a bolt of lightning.
I groan. This is insane. She’s just a woman. I meet new, beautiful women literally every day. I am acting like a moronic, hormone-addled teenager.
But she is unlike any woman I’ve ever met. Sunny is… Sunny. She’s pure sunshine.
“Anders?” Sunny’s sleep-roughened voice whispers from her place against the headboard. Her dark eyelashes flutter open as she clears her throat. “Are those my glasses?”
