The Lighter Side of Large (26 page)

I kneel down and peer at the rabbit. Its nose isn’t snuffling, its ribcage not expanding and contracting with breath.

Abe comes running. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Oh, baby,” I hug Fi. “Snowball is gone.”

Fi wails again. “Why?”

I rock her. “I don’t know, sweetie. Animals die, just like people. Maybe he was sick.”

“Let’s take him to the doctor,” Fi blubbers.

“It’s too late; we can’t,” I say.

“But why was he sick?”

“I don’t know that he was sick, Fi,” I explain. “He might have been, or he might have died of old age or something else.”

Abe pokes at Snowball through the cage. “Maybe a burglar killed him.”

“Don’t touch it,” I snap.

“Was it a burglar?” Fi looks up at me with a tear-stained face.

“There was no burglar,” I say.
Great, that’s just what Fi needs - nightmares about a rabbit-killing burglar.

“Maybe he had cancer like Dad or broke his neck,” Abe suggests.

Fi begins to wail again. “I don’t want him to have cancer!”

“Fi, Snowball didn’t have cancer,” I hug her again.
Or maybe he did. Stupid rabbit- why’d he have to go and die?

“Can I bury him?” Abe asks, fingers twitching to touch the dead rabbit again.

“Yes, you may,” I reply.

“All right!” Abe jumps up.

“But I’ll take him out of the cage. Go find a plastic sack. I don’t want you two touching him.”

Fi cries inconsolably. “I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to die.”

“Baby, we can get another rabbit.”

“I don’t want another rabbit!” Fi howls.

Abe stands with hands on his hips, observing his sister. “Dad always gives her ice cream when she won’t stop crying.”

“I want Daddy!” Fi cries. “Daddy!”

I continue rocking her. “Shhh. Hush now, Fi, it’ll be all right.”

“I WANT DADDY!”

Fi refuses to be consoled. Abe wanders out and returns with a plastic sack, waiting for me to get Snowball, but Fi is so upset that I can’t detach her from my arms. Abe sits on the bed, chin in hand, looking bored and sighing every few minutes at the drama. “I want Daddy!” Fi cries over and over.

“Abe,” I say, “would you please go call your dad? Fi really needs to talk to him right now.”

“Sure,” Abe jumps off the bed to fetch the phone. He walks back into the room after a minute, chatting on my cell phone. “She won’t stop crying,” he explains. “What? I can’t hear you. Fi, shut up! I’m trying to talk to Dad. Huh?” Abe wrinkles his face, trying to hear what his father says on the other end of the line.

I hold out my hand. “Let me have the phone.”

“Here’s Mummy,” Abe says and hands me it.

I cradle it between my shoulder and ear. “Hello?”

Mika’s voice is full of concern. “Bella? What’s going on? Is Fi hurt?”

“No. The kids’ rabbit died and she’s upset. She keeps asking for you.”

“Put her on the line,” Mika orders.

I hand the phone to Fi. “Daddy wants to talk to you.”

Fi stops crying, sniffles and takes the phone but just holds it to her ear, not speaking. “Say hi,” I tell her.

“Hi,” she says in monotone. I can’t hear Mika, but Fi nods, sniffles, nods, says “Yes”, sniffles, and hands the phone back to me. She snuggles close to me, her tears subsiding.

“It’s me again,” I say. “Whatever you said, thanks.”

“I told Fi I’ll be over in half an hour. We’ll have a funeral and bury the rabbit together.”

“What?”

“Is everything else okay?”

“Well, yes, but you don’t need to…”

“Okay, see you in thirty minutes,” Mika says and hangs up.

That’s odd,
I think. Mika dropping everything to hustle over here on account of a dead rabbit. When did Mika become a family man, putting the kids before cases?

In less than thirty minutes, Mika pulls into the driveway. I open the door as he steps out of his car, takes off his jacket and throws it back inside, then loosens his tie. “Hey, Bella, how are you?”

“You didn’t need to come over,” I ignore his question.

Mika pauses and pats me on the arms. “It’s okay. Work was slow and Fi really sounded like she needs me.”

He steps around me into the house.

Fi is balled up on the couch with her favorite blanket and doll, watching cartoons on the television with a sad face. “Hey, baby girl,” Mika says, scooping her up and sitting down with her in his lap.

“Dad!” Abe rushes in from down the hallway and catapults none-too-gently into him.

“Ow! You hit me,” Fi punches him in retaliation.

“Knock it off,” Mika warns them. “Now tell me what happened to Snowball.”

The question is directed at Fi but Abe answers, too, so Mika gets two hypothetical versions of the story at the same time and consequently can understand nothing.

Mika laughs. “Whoa, whoa, one at a time. Fi, you first.”

Fi takes a deep breath. “A burglar crawled through the window and gave Snowball cancer and that’s why we didn’t know he was sick.”

Mika looks at me, alarmed, “You were burglarised? Did you call the police?”

“No, that’s not what happened,” Abe says, annoyed.

“Uh-uh, you said that’s what happened,” Fi protests.

“I did not,” Abe argues. “I said it
might
have happened, but Mummy says Snowball got cancer and broke his neck.”

“NO, I did not,” I butt in. “I said maybe he was sick.”

Abe and Fi argue some more but Mika quiets them. “All right, that’s enough. We don’t know what really happened to Snowball but he deserves a proper burial, so let’s go.”

“Yay!” Abe cheers. “Can I dig the hole?”

“Mummy won’t let you touch Snowball,” Fi informs Mika.

Mika smiles at her and then at me. “But Daddy’s rules trump Mummy’s rules, so I get to.”

I snort. “As if. There’s a plastic bag in Fi’s room and the shovel’s already outside.”

Mika retrieves Snowball in the bag and he goes outside with Fi and Abe. I watch them through the kitchen window as Abe digs a hole. In his enthusiasm, dirt and turf go flying and hit Fi, who flares up in anger at Abe getting her doll dirty. After that, Mika helps him be less exuberant in his digging.

It’s a cute scene, just as a family should be: working together on something not really important yet making a memory they’ll never forget. I’m happy that the kids are happy around their dad, but it makes it all the more bittersweet that we aren’t a whole family any longer.

Fi runs in the house. “It’s time for the funeral,” she announces. She grabs my hand and pulls me outside. Abe pats down the grave with his hands and stands up, brushing the dirt off his hands and onto his trousers. We stand there for a moment in silence.

“Fi, would you like to say something about Snowball?” I ask.

She nods. Still holding my hands, she sets down her doll and grabs Mika’s hand, who in turn takes Abe’s hand, who then grabs my hand. We stand in a closed circle around the grave.

Fi shuts her eyes. “Dear God, please take care of Snowball in heaven and make sure he gets lots of carrots and lettuce to eat. Amen.”

I look at Abe. “Would you like to say anything?”

Abe looks thoughtful. “Can we get a dog?”

“Perhaps you can sing a song,” I suggest to Fi to end the memorial.

Fi nods. “I’ll sing Snowball’s favorite song.”

“Snowball doesn’t have a favorite song,” Abe scoffs.

Mika squeezes his hand and gives him a look which silences him. “Go ahead, Fi,” Mika encourages.

Fi pauses and then takes breath. “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer/had a very shiny nose/and if you ever saw it/you would even say it glows.”

I bite my lip in an effort to not laugh; Mika grins; and then we all join our voices to Fi’s and sing
Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer
to commemorate the passing of a beloved rabbit.

When the song is finished, Mika crouches down and wraps an arm around both kids. “It’s not fun losing a pet, but you guys are very brave. But don’t bug Mummy about getting a new pet just yet, okay?”

Abe and Fi nod. “Are you having tea with us?” Fi asks.

No, say no,
I plead silently.

Mika grins. “I’d love to, if that’s all right with Mummy.”

“Yay!” the kids cheer, jumping up and down. “Please say yes, please say yes!” they beg. Mika smiles and shrugs as if he has nothing to do with it.

“Fine,” I say without enthusiasm and the kids erupt in more cheering.

Mika stands. “I’ll help cook.”

“That isn’t necessary,” I say turning to walk back into the house. When I walk through the door, my eyes focus on my laptop. In that instance, I remember my abrupt departure from the online chat with RoMANce. The laptop is in screen saver mode, so the chat isn’t visible.

I walk over and shut the screen just as Mika walks in.

He stands in the kitchen, hands on his hips. “I’m serious about helping you with dinner. Or do you want to order out?”

“No, I’ll fix dinner by myself, thanks,” I say, rummaging through the refrigerator for something to cook. To my chagrin, I have everything needed for Mika’s favorite casserole, something I hadn’t cooked for him in years.

Mika pulls out a chair and sits at the table. “You’ve lost weight. You look really good.”

Oh, so now you notice.
“Thanks,” I say.

“How much weight have you lost?” he asks.

“Twenty kilos.”

“Wow, impressive,” he nods. “Keep it up. Your hard work is paying off.”

I get some more ingredients out of the cabinet.

“When’s the surgery?” he asks.

“Two weeks.”

“Are you still able to come to the engagement party?”

“Do you still want me to come?” I ask, my back turned.

“You do what makes you comfortable.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m still coming. The surgery is a couple days after that.”

Mika drums his fingers on the table. “You know Tiresa found out about the surgery, don’t you? Mama Rose told her and she assumes your dad is giving you the money for it.”

I laugh bitterly. “Oh, yeah, I know.”

Mika looks confused. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I turn to face him. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Mika starts to argue but shuts his mouth and drops the subject.

After that, our conversation focuses on lighter topics: Abe and Fi, his work, my drawing again, theories of Snowball’s death.

“By the way I can’t find my old sketch book. Did I leave it at your house?” I ask. We sit at the table sipping coffee, waiting for the casserole to cook.

Mika toys with his mug. “I haven’t seen it but I’ll have a look around.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It means a lot.”

Soon the casserole is done and we are having dinner together as a family. The kids are thrilled, cutting up and giggling about everything and anything. Mika and I actually laugh and smile and joke as well. This is the family we never were.

Mika’s phone, which is sitting on the table, vibrates. He picks it up, looks at the incoming text, and texts back. He meets my gaze with a shrug. “Tiresa.”

“What did you tell her?” I ask.

Mika makes a face. “I said I was still at work.”

I watch him until he looks away, and I know he knows what I’m thinking: he lied to her, just like he lied to me years ago, claiming he was at work when he was really with Tiresa.
The irony of it all,
I muse.

After dinner, Mika does the dishes while I help Abe with his homework and get Fi’s bath ready. All too soon, it’s bedtime. The kids beg for Mika to read them a story, and then another, but he stops and instead tucks them into bed.

I’m on the sofa as he comes back into the living room. He flops down next to me and the sofa sounds its loud screech. “Oops, sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“For crashing into the sofa.”

I shrug. “Isn’t that what sofas are for?”

Mika laughs. “Yeah, but not at my house. There are, a-hem, rules not of my making which prevent proper crashing. Relaxing must be done in moderation.”

I chuckle. “I see.” I’m secretly pleased that Mika feels comfortable enough to crash on my sofa when he can’t on Tiresa’s. She refurnished the family room after I left, even though the furniture was practically brand new. I know I shouldn’t feel this way and that this night is nothing but a one-off event, but knowing I still have some influence over Mika, however insignificant, is empowering.

“You always did flop with gusto, even in college.”

Mika nods. “Yeah. At least I am good at something.”