Scream For me

I spin around as she holds up one of the canvases that have two puppies on it.

“Of course we can.” I smile and lead her over to the coffee table where I set up a piece of plastic and grab the paints. “What color do you want to start with?” I ask, holding up some options for her.

“Glitter!” she shouts as she grabs for an iridescent pink. “Where’s your mom?” She focuses her attention on the picture, spreading the paint with small, slow strokes of the brush like I showed her. “Oh, I live alone. My parents don’t live with me.” “My mom died,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Um…” I pause for a second, completely unsure how to handle this situation. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. My mom died too.” I don’t know if I should have shared that. I don’t know what her father has taught her about death or the afterlife. “Tell me something about your mom,” I say, hoping to steer the conversation into a more positive light.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, continuing to paint. “I was a baby.”

“Wow, are you sure you haven’t done this before?” I look over her shoulder at her pink, glittery dog. “That looks so beautiful!”

She giggles, her eyes big. “No, I told you I have-I have not.” She stumbles over her words a little in her excitement.

“Well, maybe we should ask your dad very nicely to get you some of these to do at home. I’m sure he’d love to hang them on the refrigerator or in his office.”

“Will you come over to do them with me?” she asks hopefully and it makes my heart sink a little.

“I don’t think I can but maybe we can after school sometime if we have time.”

“Okay.” She shrugs. “What’s pissy?” she asks, changing the subject abruptly like kids often do.

“Uh, that is not a word we should be using. That’s kind of a bad word,” I say it softly so that she knows she isn’t in trouble.

“Oh.” She stops painting and looks directly at me. “Dad said that’s what you are.”

“Ha.” I can’t hold back the half laugh, half huff.

Very classy, Mr. Vaughn. I can think of a few choice words for you myself.

“I’m sure he probably meant something else. Sometimes grown-ups say things they don’t mean when they’re mad.”

My phone dings with a text and I look down to see Mr. Vaughn’s number on my screen. I slide open the message, adding his name to my contacts before I forget.

Mr. Vaughn: Everything going okay?

I’m half tempted to respond with a comment referencing how pissy I am, but I decide against it. I look up at Daisy who yawns.

Me: Just fine. She’s starting to yawn so I will put on a show for her to fall asleep to.

Mr. Vaughn: Great. Will be leaving here within the hour. I’ll bring cash to pay you. Make sure you program my name and number into your phone.

Me: Already did, sir.

I’m hoping he can pick up on the snarky tone of my text. I’m very much a functioning adult who doesn’t need to be told what to do. I roll my eyes and reach my thumb up to turn my screen off when I see his response that sends a tingle straight through my body.

Mr. Vaughn: Good girl.

I can imagine him saying it in that deep, syrupy voice of his while he stares me down with those piercing eyes.

“All done,” Daisy says.

“Why don’t we put on a show while it dries? Does that sound like a good idea?” I ask her as I start to pick up the paints and put them away.

She nods as I usher her to the bathroom to wash the paint off her hands.

“Can we watch Scooby-Doo?” she asks, stretching her arms overhead.Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Of course we can. You know, that was my favorite cartoon when I was younger too, and my mom’s. That’s where she got my name.”

She looks at me, confused. “Your name is Scooby Doo?”

“No.” I laugh. “My name is Daphne, but you call me Miss Flowers because that’s my last name. My mom loved her name when she watched the show and decided to name me Daphne as well.”

“I like that your name is Miss Flowers ’cause my name is Daisy and that’s a flower.” She climbs onto the couch as I grab a pillow and blanket for her.

“I like your name very much too.”

We barely make it fifteen minutes into one episode before she’s fast asleep on the couch beside me. I glance at the clock. It’s just after nine which I’m sure is way past her bedtime. A few moments later there’s a soft knock at my door.

“She’s sleeping,” I half-whisper as I open the door and motion toward where she’s lying on the couch.

“Here,” he says, handing me a bank envelope.

“It’s okay. I don’t need to be paid,” I say, waving away the envelope. “It was just a few hours.”

“Don’t be foolish, Miss Flowers. Take the money,” he commands, a bit exasperated. “Don’t ever work for free.”

“Oookay.” I take the envelope and open it, seeing several hundred dollar bills. “This seems very excessive. I can’t accept this much.”

“It’s not. You can and you will.”

“Bossy much,” I muttered, flipping through the bills. My gaze darts upward to his. “Since when did the going rate for babysitting jump up to two hundred and fifty an hour? Pretty sure I made like ten bucks an hour when I was sixteen.”

“Ask my nanny.”

My mouth falls open. “Your nanny makes two-fifty an hour?”

“No, not exactly, but I pay her probably three times what most people pay their nanny.”

“Damn, are you hiring for a second nanny?” I laugh, placing the envelope on the table by my front door.

He tilts his head, half leaning against the doorframe. “I think we both know that would not be a good idea.” He stares at me, his eyes dark and heavy. He drops them down to my breasts, then back up to my mouth. I feel like I’m standing stark naked right now, completely vulnerable. My mouth goes dry again and my knees feel like they could buckle at any second.

Why wouldn’t it be a good idea? Because he sees you as a pissy annoyance, remember?

“Are you ever going to let me in to get my daughter?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I step aside, wrapping my arms around myself in a nervous attempt to play off that little scenario.

He walks over to the couch, pulls the blanket from her, and scoops her up into his arms. She barely stirs, still fast asleep in his arms, then he grabs her bag and heads to the door.

“Thanks again. I owe you one.”

It’s interesting to see a man who can be so cold and dismissive be gentle and loving to his little girl. I wanted to mention the conversation I had with Daisy tonight about her mother, but it slipped my mind. I remind myself to mention it the next time I see him.

It breaks my heart that Daisy has to grow up without a mother. I can’t imagine life without my mother. Losing her when I was in my early twenties still felt like I was being robbed of so many memories, so many pivotal moments in life that she should have been a part of.

I grab my phone and flop on the couch. I type Weston Vaughn’s name into the search bar and hit enter, scrolling down to see his wife’s name. “Mirabelle Vaughn,” I say out loud as I click and an image of her fills my screen. She was stunning. Dark hair, big brown eyes, and high cheekbones.

Daisy looks just like her.