Page 18 of Adrift

I stare at her. I’ve realized I have a tendency to do that with her because she baffles me. “I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but–”

Rani gasps, looking over at Arman before giving me a disparaging glare. “Language!”

Didn’t she just walk into my house like, less than an hour ago? How is it she’s already barking out orders?

“Sorry,” I reply, not wanting to argue that my son has words like ‘daddy,’ ‘food,’ and ‘pee pee,’ to accomplish before the word ‘asshole’ makes it into his vocabulary. “But why do you continue to do it? It was for a school project . . ..”

She laughs, shyly, her cheeks picking up a rosy tinge. “Yeah, I know what you’re asking, but how do I disappoint almost thirty-three thousand subscribers?”

My mouth opens as I process what she’s said. “Thirty-three thousand subscribers on a blog that talks about the love lives of the elderly?”

“Well, it’s more than that,” she defends, her chin tilting up. “It’s not just gossip about someone's love life; it’s an account of their greatest happiness. For example, I met a man named Murray, who was a prisoner of war during World War II. Before he’d left for the war, he asked Clara, a woman he fell in love with, to marry him once he came back. But when he was captured for well over three years, he was sure he’d lost her.” She smiles and her entire face lights up, as if the story is an account of her own. “When he was finally released and returned home, she was waiting for him. They got married some time later and had four children.”

I listen, hearing more than the sound of her voice as she gives me a glimpse of who she is on the inside. A romantic. Someone lost in happily-ever-afters and stolen kisses.

Naive and carefree.

Someone I won’t ever be again. Not when I know there’s no such thing as happily-ever-afters.

“So, it’s not just a frivolous blog about old flames; it’s a living journal, a memoir. And my subscribers live for these examples of hope, optimism, and love in a world that sometimes feels like it’s lacking it.”

As if done upholding her stance, she wipes her mouth on a napkin before turning the linen over and wiping Arman’s mouth, too. He tries to push her hand away, but she does it anyway, as if she’s done it a million times.

Who is this woman and how is she only nineteen?

From the way she speaks her mind, to the way she doles out hope and sunshine like it comes packaged in a bottle–giving away easy smiles and sprinkling fairy dust on people in the process–to the way she enthusiastically volunteers to help a stranger, who quite possibly was the reason her family broke apart years ago, you’d think she was an ambassador of UNICEF or Mother Teresa.

And she has this instinct and confidence when it comes to my son that I never expected. From the way she holds him, the way she coos and smiles at him, and even the way she took on her duties with him in the matter of minutes, I’m surprised she hasn’t done this before–barring that Sprite incident.

In all honesty, I was more amused about the way her voice trembled and her big eyes got rounder when she slipped up about it. I’m a jackass for loving the way I put her on edge, but I can’t promise I won’t do it again, either.

Arman starts to wiggle in his high chair–his cue that he’s either wet or done with his lunch or both. I get up to unbuckle him from his seat when Rani’s hand lands on my arm, sending that same zing up my shoulder and down my spine, making me recoil once more.

I’m sure I look like an asshole every time I flinch at her innocent touch, but if she notices, she doesn’t show it. “How about you start cleaning up, and I’ll see if he needs a diaper change? We’ll join you in the kitchen when we’re done.”

“Sure,” I respond all too quickly, picking up our plates and rushing to the kitchen.

I hear them through the baby monitor in the kitchen as I rinse our plates in the sink. My eyes move to the figures on the screen.

Rani says something to Arman, speaking softly before she lays him down on the changing table. She brings her face down to his tummy and tickles him, making him squeal before he grabs hold of her curly hair.

“Ouch!” She giggles before unwrapping his fist and then kissing it. “You little monster!” She nuzzles him again, and the process of giggling and laughing seems to restart.

I don’t even realize I’ve rinsed the same damn plate several times when I hear her sing. Her soft rasp wraps around the words, immediately quieting Arman. It’s a song from Mary Poppins called, Stay Awake. I recognize it from my own childhood memories when my brothers would come over for the weekend–when my dad had them–and we all sat around playing cards with the movie playing in the background because Mom liked it so much.

Rani quickly changes Arman’s diaper before throwing the dirty one into the pail nearby and picks him back up. I watch as she gives him a big kiss on his cheek before they head out of the room. I quickly wipe my hands on a kitchen towel and turn off the monitor.

The scent of lilies comes floating in along with Rani and Arman’s giggles, and I focus on wiping down the kitchen counters. Rani sets Arman in his walker, encouraging him to hit the various obnoxious-sounding buttons on it while both of their chirps and cackles permeate the living room.

And they invade the peace I thought I’d finally achieved over the past year.

Chapter Seven

Rani

“Daw!” Arman points to the husky mix with its front paws on a tree while his owner tries to pull him back with the leash, unsuccessfully. The dog seems focused on the squirrel that darted past him.

“Yeah!” I cheer, putting some more Cheerios and blueberries on the tray affixed to his stroller. “Dog! Do you like dogs, little man?”

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