Page 93 of Sunshine
“Yeah?”
“You listed me as one of Izzy’s in-case-of-emergency contacts?”
“I…” I drag a hand through my hair and move to the side of the room, suddenly aware of a handful of diners turning to look at me while I talk. “Yeah. I did. Is that okay?”
I wish I could see her face because the joy in her voice warms me even now. “Of course, it’s okay. It’s more than okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay. So… I’ll meet you back at the house?”
“Yep. See you soon.”
I waste five minutes handing the kitchen over to Liz, another ten raiding our pantries for the ingredients I need to make Izzy’s favorite soup—the chicken broth with alphabet pasta and chunks of carrot cut into star shapes—then rush back to the house. By the time Poppy pulls into the driveway, I’ve got the soup ready, as well as a plate of fresh fruit, a bowl of homemade vanilla ice cream topped with dark chocolate sauce, and anotherfilled with the disgusting artificially colored sugar cereal Poppy and Izzy seem to love.
I hate to be an enabler, but Izzy’s been sick a handful of times in her life, and every time, it makesmewant to throw up. I’ll do anything to make her feel better. If cereal is what she wants, then cereal is what she gets.
I meet my girls at the door. They’re holding hands—Poppy with Izzy’s school bag on her back, Izzy dragging her shiny leather shoes through the dusty gravel.
Poppy gives me nothing more than a slight shrug, so I crouch down to meet Izzy as she climbs the porch steps and try not to let the tightness in my chest trigger an overreaction. Whatever’s wrong can be fixed.
“Hey, Little Bee. What’s going on? Poppy tells me you feel sick.”
Izzy nods her droopy head as she rubs her belly. “Uh-huh. My tummy feels funny.”
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Daddy made you alphabet soup. And fruit. And ice cream.” When my menu fails to produce a hint of enthusiasm, I sigh and add, “I made cereal too. Maybe that will help?”
Izzy lifts her chin, and my heart leaps into my throat. Her beautiful brown eyes swim with unshed tears. “Will Poppy still be my nanny when Mommy comes?”
“What?”
I shoot a panicked look at Poppy, who’s fighting back tears of her own, then gather Izzy in my arms as I stand. “Yes, Poppy will be—”
I trip over my words. After what happened this weekend, I can’t bring myself to call Poppy the nanny. It’s not only inadequate. It feels wrong—almost callous—and cowardly. Poppy’s so much more to us than hired help. She’s family. And yet… Family is a big concept for Izzy right now, not to mentiona confusing one. And until I can save Poppy’s friendship with Daisy, I can’t expect Izzy to understand what’s going on.
I meet Poppy’s eyes over the top of Izzy’s head and see the same uncertainty in her expression.
“Poppy isn’t going anywhere,” I say firmly. To both of them.
Poppy offers me a small smile, but it’s clear I haven’t soothed her worries, and I wonder what it must have felt like for her to find out about Annalise’s arrival from Izzy and not me. Dammit. I should have found time to explain it all this morning. I should have…
What? I didn’t know Izzy knew about it, and I’m suddenly pissed off with Annalise. What the hell was she thinking, talking to Izzy about visitation without clearing it with me first? The rage flares fast before it sputters into self-loathing. When have I ever set a boundary with Annalise to make sure this shit doesn’t happen? Never.
“All right, Little Bee. Let’s get you changed and snuggled up on the sofa. Do you want to sleep?”
She sniffles and shrugs, perhaps slightly calmer after my promise that Poppy isn’t leaving. “Can I watch a movie?”
“Of course. Anything you want.”
“Rapunzel?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Here.” Poppy reaches for Izzy, and I shift her into Poppy’s arms. “I’ll take her upstairs and help her out of this uniform. We’ll meet you in the living room in five?”
It feels wrong to let either of them out of my sight when all I want to do is reassure them over and over that I’ll take care of everything, but I force myself to nod. “Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, Izzy’s stomachache seems to have resolved itself. She’s on the couch with her cereal and ice cream—my soup and fresh fruit forgotten on the kitchen counter—while on the television screen, a hundred glowing paper lanterns beckona lost Rapunzel home. My relief at her relief is greater than my resistance to all that sugar. She was anxious, not unwell, and again it coincided with a visit from her mother. I need to do better, and I need to do betternow.
