The Puck’s Bunny

Ch.9

EROS

I returned home early on Tuesday, only to find that my living room had been vandalized. There's no other way to describe it. Vandalized. Every cushion from the three couches had been removed and arranged into a sprawling structure in the middle of the room. Blankets I didn't even know I had were draped over the dining chairs, which had been pulled from the kitchen and set up like load-bearing columns.

The coffee table, which cost more than most people's cars, had been shoved against the far wall. And taped to my walls—my walls—on the imported plaster that my interior designer had painstakingly perfected over three weeks, were crayon drawings. Dozens of them. Suns with faces. Houses featuring red doors. And what looked like a purple elephant standing next to an exceptionally tall stick figure.

I found myself in the foyer, hockey stick in one hand and gym-bag draped over my shoulder, when I sensed something shatter in the meticulously preserved tranquility I had cultivated for twenty-eight years.

"What happened to my living room?" I inquired.

I didn’t elevate my voice. Raising my voice was never my style. Yet, my words resonated, and from within the blanket fort, I detected movement. A shuffling of fabric.

The gentle thud of a knee against a chair leg. Claire Dawson emerged from beneath a draped bedsheet, her hair tied back, a green crayon tucked behind her ear, and what looked like a sticker of Mickey Mouse adorning her left cheek. She rose, dusted off her jeans, and regarded me with the look of someone who had anticipated this very moment and had resolved beforehand not to feel remorse about it.

"Welcome home, Mr. Asante. You're early."

"I understand." I placed my gym bag down gently, as if trying not to toss it aside. "Could you please clarify why my living room resembles a refugee camp?"

"We constructed a fort."

"I can see that."

"Chloe wanted to do it."

"Chloe is unable to reach the dining chairs."

"No, that part was my doing. However, the architectural vision was entirely hers."

I opened my mouth to reply, ready to give the thoughtful and measured lecture I had been formulating in my mind about the sanctity of my living space and the essential idea of professional boundaries, when the blanket fort shifted once more.

Chloe emerged, her fingers covered in crayon marks of every hue, a streak of blue smudged across her chin, and her hair was so tangled that it would have sent any previous nanny into a frenzy for a brush. She sported mismatched socks—one pink and one yellow—and her dress had a small tear near the hem that I was sure hadn’t been there earlier today.

She gazed up at me, a smile spreading across her face. It wasn't the careful, polite, closed-mouth smile she sometimes wore when she sensed I needed comfort. Nor was it the half-smile she gave Mrs. Parker when her favorite pasta was served. This was a genuine smile. Full and open. The kind that lifted her cheeks and turned her eyes into crescent shapes. The kind of smile I hadn't seen on my daughter's face since she was two years old, before the world had a chance to break her.

The lecture I had prepared vanished into thin air. Every single word, gone like smoke caught in a gust of wind. I stood there in my expensive shoes on my damaged hardwood floors, and something inside me cracked so loudly that I was astonished it didn't resonate.

"Hey, sugar," I managed to say, my voice coming out rougher than I had meant it to. "Looks like you've been busy."

Chloe presented a crayon drawing. This one stood out from the others displayed on the wall. Three figures were depicted in front of a large rectangle, which I presumed represented the penthouse. The tallest figure was a dark scribble dressed in a suit. The smallest was a vibrant splash of yellow with dark hair. Between them, grasping both their hands, was a figure adorned with curly lines on its head and what seemed to be oversized shoes.

I didn’t require a translator for this piece. Chloe eagerly pushed the drawing toward me with both hands, her smile radiant, and I accepted it gently, as if it were something fragile that could disintegrate if I held it incorrectly.

“This is really impressive,” I remarked. “Is that me?”

She gestured towards the tall, shadowy figure and gave a nod.

"I really like the suit. It's quite precise," I remarked, glancing at the curly-haired person in the center. "And who might that be?"

Chloe turned around and pointed straight at Claire, who stood three feet behind her, still sporting the green crayon tucked behind her ear. Her expression was one I couldn't fully interpret. It was a mix of caution and softness, resembling the look of someone who has done something they believe is right but is uncertain if you'll agree.

"It's a beautiful drawing, Chloe," I remarked. I carefully folded it and tucked it into the pocket of my gym bag , right beside the other one I've been carrying for months, the faded piece with just two figures that she sketched the week after Veronica left. "Thank you."

Chloe's smile softened into something more tender, more intimate, yet it remained. She reached for Claire's hand, and Claire accepted it without a moment's pause, the two of them standing there amidst the chaos of my living room as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. I glanced at the crayon drawings affixed to my walls. I noticed the tape was painter's tape, the kind that comes off easily without harming surfaces. She had thought this through. She considered the walls before allowing my daughter to adorn them.

"The cushions need to be back on the couches by dinner," I mentioned.

"I had already thought about it."

"The dining chairs are meant for the dining room."

"Of course."

"Additionally, Rule #31 explicitly mentions that furniture should not be rearranged without prior written consent."

Claire tilted her head. "Should I prepare a formal proposal for a blanket fort next time? I can add some blueprints."

The corner of my mouth twitched. I caught it, extinguished it, and buried it before it could morph into anything that resembled a smile. I was determined not to smile at Claire Dawson's defiance. I refused to reward the behavior that had transformed my penthouse into a daycare center.

"That won't be necessary," I stated flatly. "Just clean it up."

I grabbed my gym bag and made my way toward the stairs, acutely aware of both of them watching me leave. Halfway up, I heard Chloe's tiny feet padding across the floor, followed by the sound of blankets rustling as she seemingly dove back into the fort. Then, I caught another sound, faint and barely audible, drifting up the stairwell.

Claire was humming.

Rule #14.

I continued my walk. Chloe beamed at me. I kept revisiting the thought, rolling it around in my mind like a stone I discovered on the shore.

Smooth, surprisingly warmed by the sun. My daughter grinned because a woman I had known for just nine days created a blanket fort in my living room and allowed her to tape crayon drawings to the walls. Nine days. Six others had tried for months using flashcards, structured activities, and therapeutic play methods suggested by specialists who charged four thousand dollars an hour, yet none of them achieved what Claire Dawson managed with a bedsheet and a box of crayons.

A woman who ought to be stable. Reliable. Not someone who awakens feelings in me that I've buried deep. I vigorously shake my head, trying to suppress it all. I must keep my distance and uphold control. My guidelines are what preserve my existence. And Claire, she will adhere to those guidelines. She must. I cannot permit anyone to disrupt my life again. Not once more. Not ever.