Charlotte’s trembling hand gripped Monday’s penciled, smudged report about her grandson. It galled her, to no end, that his daycare provider obsessed over consumption and excretion. Rather than safety.
April 25
Nathan ate all his beans and rice and made a BM in his diaper. No more diarrhea! We’ll encourage him to try the Big Kid Toilet again next week. Outside, he hid in the Jungle Hut with Chelsea.
Over a hundred of these Sunshine House notes were stashed in Roselle’s top right kitchen drawer. Charlotte had watched her daughter’s eyes brim with tears of joy as she read about Nathan’s developmental accomplishments. Even if mama has to work, these communications reassured, her little darling’s as good as home in the bosom of Tami’s daycare center.
Misleading crap.
But Roselle was a single mother, the sperm that fertilized her egg “donated by a friend”—which is all she’d told her mother about the conception. Roselle was late in launching career and family, and with the burden of house payments and law school debt resting solely on her, affordable pre-school was a must. It wasn’t Charlotte’s place to question her daughter’s choices. Her offer of monetary assistance got soundly rebuffed.
“Big mistake,” Charlotte said to the foolish slip of lavender paper in her grasp. Security must be priority number one. Not forcing the kiddy potty on babies.
Roselle got bamboozled by Tami’s home-cooked lunches and fleshy helpers with shy smiles. She didn’t see the red flags flapping.
April 26
Nathan didn’t eat any veggie macaroni, but he drank some soy milk. He grunted and screwed up his face. We checked and found nothing visibly wrong. Sandi thinks it’s food allergies. He fell asleep cranky but woke from his nap and asked for a cookie.
Charlotte was aghast. Further preoccupation with digestion, yet what did Sandi know about children’s health? She had no medical or Early Childhood Development training. “Sandi” wasn’t even her real name, and “Suzi” wasn’t the other girl’s. Tami made those names up. Her minimum wage workers spoke broken English and lumbered about like overfed sloths. Illegal aliens from Honduras and Chechnya, Charlotte surmised, plucked from society’s margins for low overhead childcare service.
Roselle was deposing an insurance fraud witness in Fresno, three hours away, when a frantic Tami telephoned her. Charlotte was able to leave the design showroom and rush to the daycare in Roselle’s place. Police were on-scene when she parked, the squad car attracting neighbors’ curiosity. A detective dusted the gate latch for fingerprints. Mothers showed up with stricken faces and clung to their offspring, selfishly grateful the kidnapping victim was someone else’s.
The female officer took statements from staff and toddlers. During the incident Suzi was washing lunch dishes and saw nothing. Tami claimed to be in the bathroom. Her irritable bowel syndrome was an impediment to maintaining adequate vigilance—didn’t Roselle see? According to three-year-old Paolo, a “bad man” took “Nay” out of the yard. As for Sandi, she was bent over, gathering spilled blocks, and observed only the back of a male fleeing through the gate with Nathan over his shoulder. She tried giving chase, but the assailant quickly escaped from sight.
Irresponsible! And devastating. Worse, Charlotte’s gut told her Tami was hiding something. But where was her proof?
Charlotte opened the Parent Box and collected the latest reports about Nathan. His sweatshirt still hung on its hook. She clutched it to her face, wishing the drier sheet fragrance would conjure the little boy’s essence.
The male cop instructed her to wait at Roselle’s house. While the “mother of the missing child was in transit” someone had to be on hand in case a call from the abductor went to the home. The officer took the sweatshirt from Charlotte, to bag for DNA evidence. Letting the garment go made her feel helpless.
Now she stared at Roselle’s wall-mounted phone, willing it to ring. She should have demanded a wire tap to trace extortion attempts. She should have insisted the FBI Child Abduction Unit be brought on the case. For the world to be set aright, Roselle needed to return home and declare these measures taken. Or better yet, declare Nathan recovered.
April 27
For Greggie’s birthday the kids ate carrot cake, and Suzi led the Happy Birthday song. When Paulo asked to share the Crocodile Rocker, Nathan bit his arm. During his time-out, Nathan tore a page out of the How Do You Wear It book.
Nathan normally wasn’t a cross child. He must have been sick. Charlotte suspected neglect.
And this morning--did loose poop run down Nathan’s pant legs again? Did someone inflict excess punishment? Hurt him? A complicit relative of one of the babysitters could have whisked him away.
Or maybe Nathan got kidnapped by Roselle’s mysterious sperm donor. Oh, Roselle. Weren’t you taught to know better?
Whatever the story--random stranger, shifty immigrant, entitled sperm donor--Charlotte felt like she alone bore the brunt of the pain. She folded the last “My Daily Dish at Sunshine House” dispatch over and over, until it was a tiny ball in her hot hand. The tighter she squeezed, the more pressure built inside her chest. She itched to assign fault, unyoke her fury at Tami, the police, someone! But when Roselle came through that door, broken by desperation and guilt, she would rely on her mother’s strength and judgment. Charlotte used every ounce of psychic energy to push the furious urges down.
The telephone at last screamed to life. A development, a demand, deliverance from the agony of waiting.
Charlotte was not to find out. The trills of the phone penetrated her chest like shocks of electricity. Her heart spasmed, burned, choked to a stop. Everything went quiet. Her silver-blonde head hit the bull-nose edge of the tiled counter as she dropped, and Roselle’s house went unutterably blacker.
April 25
Nathan ate all his beans and rice and made a BM in his diaper. No more diarrhea! We’ll encourage him to try the Big Kid Toilet again next week. Outside, he hid in the Jungle Hut with Chelsea.
Over a hundred of these Sunshine House notes were stashed in Roselle’s top right kitchen drawer. Charlotte had watched her daughter’s eyes brim with tears of joy as she read about Nathan’s developmental accomplishments. Even if mama has to work, these communications reassured, her little darling’s as good as home in the bosom of Tami’s daycare center.
Misleading crap.
But Roselle was a single mother, the sperm that fertilized her egg “donated by a friend”—which is all she’d told her mother about the conception. Roselle was late in launching career and family, and with the burden of house payments and law school debt resting solely on her, affordable pre-school was a must. It wasn’t Charlotte’s place to question her daughter’s choices. Her offer of monetary assistance got soundly rebuffed.
“Big mistake,” Charlotte said to the foolish slip of lavender paper in her grasp. Security must be priority number one. Not forcing the kiddy potty on babies.
Roselle got bamboozled by Tami’s home-cooked lunches and fleshy helpers with shy smiles. She didn’t see the red flags flapping.
April 26
Nathan didn’t eat any veggie macaroni, but he drank some soy milk. He grunted and screwed up his face. We checked and found nothing visibly wrong. Sandi thinks it’s food allergies. He fell asleep cranky but woke from his nap and asked for a cookie.
Charlotte was aghast. Further preoccupation with digestion, yet what did Sandi know about children’s health? She had no medical or Early Childhood Development training. “Sandi” wasn’t even her real name, and “Suzi” wasn’t the other girl’s. Tami made those names up. Her minimum wage workers spoke broken English and lumbered about like overfed sloths. Illegal aliens from Honduras and Chechnya, Charlotte surmised, plucked from society’s margins for low overhead childcare service.
Roselle was deposing an insurance fraud witness in Fresno, three hours away, when a frantic Tami telephoned her. Charlotte was able to leave the design showroom and rush to the daycare in Roselle’s place. Police were on-scene when she parked, the squad car attracting neighbors’ curiosity. A detective dusted the gate latch for fingerprints. Mothers showed up with stricken faces and clung to their offspring, selfishly grateful the kidnapping victim was someone else’s.
The female officer took statements from staff and toddlers. During the incident Suzi was washing lunch dishes and saw nothing. Tami claimed to be in the bathroom. Her irritable bowel syndrome was an impediment to maintaining adequate vigilance—didn’t Roselle see? According to three-year-old Paolo, a “bad man” took “Nay” out of the yard. As for Sandi, she was bent over, gathering spilled blocks, and observed only the back of a male fleeing through the gate with Nathan over his shoulder. She tried giving chase, but the assailant quickly escaped from sight.
Irresponsible! And devastating. Worse, Charlotte’s gut told her Tami was hiding something. But where was her proof?
Charlotte opened the Parent Box and collected the latest reports about Nathan. His sweatshirt still hung on its hook. She clutched it to her face, wishing the drier sheet fragrance would conjure the little boy’s essence.
The male cop instructed her to wait at Roselle’s house. While the “mother of the missing child was in transit” someone had to be on hand in case a call from the abductor went to the home. The officer took the sweatshirt from Charlotte, to bag for DNA evidence. Letting the garment go made her feel helpless.
Now she stared at Roselle’s wall-mounted phone, willing it to ring. She should have demanded a wire tap to trace extortion attempts. She should have insisted the FBI Child Abduction Unit be brought on the case. For the world to be set aright, Roselle needed to return home and declare these measures taken. Or better yet, declare Nathan recovered.
April 27
For Greggie’s birthday the kids ate carrot cake, and Suzi led the Happy Birthday song. When Paulo asked to share the Crocodile Rocker, Nathan bit his arm. During his time-out, Nathan tore a page out of the How Do You Wear It book.
Nathan normally wasn’t a cross child. He must have been sick. Charlotte suspected neglect.
And this morning--did loose poop run down Nathan’s pant legs again? Did someone inflict excess punishment? Hurt him? A complicit relative of one of the babysitters could have whisked him away.
Or maybe Nathan got kidnapped by Roselle’s mysterious sperm donor. Oh, Roselle. Weren’t you taught to know better?
Whatever the story--random stranger, shifty immigrant, entitled sperm donor--Charlotte felt like she alone bore the brunt of the pain. She folded the last “My Daily Dish at Sunshine House” dispatch over and over, until it was a tiny ball in her hot hand. The tighter she squeezed, the more pressure built inside her chest. She itched to assign fault, unyoke her fury at Tami, the police, someone! But when Roselle came through that door, broken by desperation and guilt, she would rely on her mother’s strength and judgment. Charlotte used every ounce of psychic energy to push the furious urges down.
The telephone at last screamed to life. A development, a demand, deliverance from the agony of waiting.
Charlotte was not to find out. The trills of the phone penetrated her chest like shocks of electricity. Her heart spasmed, burned, choked to a stop. Everything went quiet. Her silver-blonde head hit the bull-nose edge of the tiled counter as she dropped, and Roselle’s house went unutterably blacker.
