Page 45 of Molly
I dug my keys out of my front pockets and unlocked the car with the key fob. “What do I need?”
She scrutinized my face as I buckled her in. “You need me to give you a makeover with the pretty make-up Yiayia sent me.”
My hand froze on the buckle at her chest. “Wouldn’t you ratherIgiveyoua makeover?”
One side of her little mouth turned down. “I don’t need a makeover. I’m already beautiful.”
I kissed her forehead. “Yes, you are.” If she could keep that positive self-image the rest of her life, I’d be the happiest father on the planet. Her door shut and I climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll make you just as beautiful as me.”
Not possible, but neither was delaying the inevitable. In less than an hour my face would be sporting a rainbow of colors. But if painting my face made Chloe happy, I’d sit still and be her canvas.
Plus, there was the small chance she’d get distracted and forget about the whole makeover idea to begin with.
Nope. Wishful thinking.
Forty-three minutes later I sat on a stool, my knees to my chest, as Chloe opened the much-too-large container of play make-up my mom had sent her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the park?” I asked for the third time.
“Maybe after your makeover.” She selected a dark pink disk of something and a fluffy brush. The brush swirled around the pink powder then she lifted the bristles up.
My eyes crossed as I watched the brush get closer to my face.
Closer.
Contact.
The bristles tickled my cheek as she drew a circle in the hollow between my cheekbone and jaw. First one side, then the other. I knew as much about applying makeup as the next guy, but wasn’t there something about blending? I didn’t have a mirror, but my face felt like it could win a Raggedy-Anne look-a-like contest.
Chloe put down the pink disk and brush, then fished a tube of lipstick out of her make-up case. She twisted the bottom until a red tower protruded from the top.
“That might be too much,” I warned.
She twisted it down a millimeter. Her breath heated my chin as she leaned toward my mouth. Fingers on either side of my lips, she squeezed, smooshing my lips like a fish. The lipstick was cold and definitely not staying within the lines of my lips.
“Daddy,” she said as she released my face and twisted the tube, “I want to die.”
Matter-of-fact pronouncement. Pretty as you please. She might as well have stated she wanted pizza for dinner with the amount of emotion she put into the statement. No, pizza would have elicited even more feeling.
Calm down, Ben. But I couldn’t calm down. My heart was beating against my ribs like a convict against prison bars. I swallowed, my mind scrambling on how to proceed. “You don’t want to die, Chloe.”
She held up a smaller brush than the one she’d used on my cheeks, along with a tiny container of blue powder. “Yes, I do. I want to die.”
If I was at the hospital and someone told me they didn’t want to live anymore, I’d issue a 5150 hold on them since they presented as a danger to themselves. That way they could receive a psychiatric evaluation and begin to get the help they needed.
But Chloe wasn’t one of my patients. Should I call the psych department at the hospital? What was the balance of not overreacting and yet heeding any warning signs?
“Close your eyes,” she demanded as she dabbed her little brush into the blue powder.
My eyes closed. The brush tickled, then hurt when she put too much pressure against my eye socket. “Chloe, saying you want to die isn’t funny. Suicide—wanting to kill yourself—is serious. There are a lot of people hurting who need help. We shouldn’t make jokes about death.”
She blew on my closed eyes. “I’m not joking. I want to die.”
My excuses for her claims were running out, and I could feel my panic rising. Father and doctor, but I was not equipped to deal with this.
Before my mind registered what I was doing, I had my phone in my hand and was pulling up Molly’s contact.
