She gets up early and makes breakfast for the kids. She packs their lunches. She takes them to school. She cleans the apartment. She tries to cook dinner, which she usually fails at but I give her credit for trying. She’s friends with Hope and even gets her out of her apartment during the day. She talks to the kids and listens to their answers.
And even though I know I should just be thankful for the effort she’s making, it all makes me suspicious instead. I lived with my head in the sand for years overlooking. They say love is blind—it sure as hell is, either that or I had embarrassingly low expectations, because I loved her through the worst.
Being a good person is partially subjective, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. It’s whatever we deem acceptable, whatever we find ourselves worthy of. I always held myself to one set of criteria—being kind and supportive was the man I always wanted to be. Because my father wasn’t. He was in my life, in our home, but never present, and always, without fail, oppressive. His sentences, when he chose to speak to me, usually began with you can’t, you don’t, or you won’t. I know human beings are made up of cells, but I’m convinced my father was made up of negativity. It festered within him like a poison and made him incapable of love.
I vowed to never be like him. I married someone like him, instead. Granted, Miranda was more refined than my father. She played games with lies and manipulation, while he favored spewing blunt hatred. And the difference between the two is stark; I blindly loved one and with eyes open resented the other.
The root deep maliciousness is what keeps me from believing Miranda. It’s that little wounded voice in the back of my head warning me that people don’t change. Which is strange, because I’m a counselor, I’ve always had faith that people can change for the better. That sometimes all they need is someone who cares and some resources to aid them. I thought my father was the only person who would ever dodge that feeling of optimism in me. It seems Miranda is the second. My heart can only endure so much brutality before it shuts off and starts to hold a grudge. A lifelong grudge.
I think that’s why I’m so pissed. She’s stifled optimism in me. I have to work at it harder than ever.
Never was that more apparent than today when she walked into my office at lunch. She’s never, in all the years I’ve worked here, stepped foot inside this school. So, hearing the knock on my open office door accompanied by Miranda, momentarily puts me into self-preservation mode.
Instead of saying hello, I say, “What are you doing here?” God, I ask that question of her a lot lately.
My desk phone rings before she can answer. I lift the receiver, and Janet is whispering in my ear, “Seamus, your ex-wife is headed your way. Do I need to call someone to remove her from the premises?”
I look at Miranda and the brown, deli lunch sack in her hand, and answer, “Yup, she’s here. And no. Thank you, Janet.”
“Okay. Call me if you need anything,” she replies.
“Will do. Thanks.”
When I hang up, Miranda is settling in the chair across the desk from me, and she’s amused. “The office secretary hates me, Seamus. She’s a pit bull.”
I plan on commenting, but I’m speechless as I watch her take two sandwiches and napkins out of the bag and then she hands me one. She does it like it’s natural and has been done a million times before. It hasn’t. I search my memory, and I never remember her doing anything like this. I’m more convinced now than ever she’s possessed. I unwrap my sandwich and lift the top roll to peek inside, it’s roast beef with spicy mustard and banana peppers. “How did you know I like this? This is my favorite.” It sounds accusatory instead of grateful.
She shrugs, untouched by my cynicism, as she takes a bite of her sandwich. “I asked Mrs. Lipokowski. Weird woman, but nice enough I suppose. And she loves you, Seamus. You should’ve seen the sparkle in her eye when I mentioned your name, it was like some sort of magical Peter Pan pixie dust shit.”
“She is nice,” I defend. Not that Miranda was degrading her, but I still feel like I need to say something. I look at her, basking in nonchalance like she was born that way—which I damn well know she wasn’t—eating her sandwich I’m more dumbfounded than ever. “Why are you here? Am I about to be poisoned? Did you put something in this sandwich?”
“Can’t I just do something nice for you?” she says offhandedly like nice is all she’s ever been to me.
I shake my head. “No. You never have before.”
She huffs, but it sounds more like a slightly amused laugh. “I deserved that.” Then she’s serious and whispers, “I’m trying, Seamus.”
I give in to the mouthwatering aroma of the sandwich under my nose and take a bite. “Thank you.” Giving thanks should never feel forced. These past two weeks with her, it has. The words feel disloyal somehow and get stuck in my throat. “For the sandwich,” I clarify. “Now, tell me what it is you want.” I know she wants something. She wouldn’t be here otherwise.
“You used to be nice, Seamus.”
“I used to be blissfully unaware. That played well into being nice. There’s a difference. You fucked me over, that changed me.”