Darian Smith
The reminder pops up on my screen. Seven thirty-five p.m. Time for monster-check.
I click ‘snooze’ again and finish typing my email. It has to be worded just right. Enough pressure to inspire action, without seeming desperate. Enough confidence to seem reliable, without obvious over-selling. People are cautious with their investments in a recession. The economy can be a bitch.
I hesitate with the mouse pointer over the ‘Send’ button, then save it to Drafts instead. I’ll look at it again later. Maybe in the morning. The weekend will give it time to settle in my mind. I push the lid of my laptop closed. The whirr of the machine slows and falls silent.
‘Daddy?’ The small voice comes to me from down the hall, a wisp on the air currents pushed out by the swish heat pump we had installed almost two years ago. Just before everything went south.
‘Coming, Madsy.’ I close the door to the office and find my wife in the hall, a glittering black cocktail dress draped over her arm.
‘For God’s sake, don’t call her that. You know I hate it. Her name is Madison.’
I lean in to give her a quick kiss. ‘I know, beloved. Just habit.’
The little lines between her brows crinkle, almost cracking her carefully applied makeup. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ She gestures to me with the dress. ‘Don’t take all night in there. We don’t want to be late.’
I smile. ‘Fashionably.’
‘Hmm. Not too fashionably.’
The door to our daughter’s room is open. She never sleeps with it closed. I pause on the threshold to trace the design carved into either side of the doorway.
Madison peers up at me from beneath a pink Disney princess duvet. Her hair is natural gold and curls in a way that takes her mother hours at an expensive salon to achieve. A pity they can’t trade.
‘Daddy, you’re late.’
I sit beside her on the bed and stroke her curls. ‘I’m here now. Did Mummy read your story?’
Madison wriggles under the covers, shifting onto her side. ‘Yes, but she read it too fast.’
‘Well, that’s what you get when you take too long brushing teeth and getting into your PJs.’
More wriggling. ‘I didn’t!’
‘Okay, well, it’s time to go to sleep now. I’ll check the closet and under the bed for monsters, and then it’s lights out.’
Madison goes very still. ‘You don’t have to.’
I freeze, already bent over to look under the bed, like a dollar bill folded and ready for the wallet. ‘What do you mean, Madsy?’
The nightly monster check is part of our bedtime ritual. There’s not much I can give her these days, but the security of a father who can chase away childhood fears is one.
Her voice is small, emanating from the pink confection that is her duvet. ‘There won’t be any monsters tonight. The lady will be here soon and she doesn’t let them come.’
I sit up and pull the duvet back from her face. Her eyes are wide. ‘What lady, Madsy?’
Her thumb finds its way to her lips, almost blocking the whispered words. ‘The dead lady.’
I form the words, but I am numb. There’s a kind of ringing in my ears. ‘The dead lady?’
Madison nods and pulls her thumb from her mouth just long enough to answer.
‘She stands in the doorway and doesn’t let anything in. The monsters are scared of her.’
‘How do you know she’s dead?’
Madison shrugs. ‘She just is.’
I’m shaking as I step into the hall. For once Madison makes no protest when I shut her bedroom door. I take a deep breath. My little girl is afraid of a dead lady she sees in her bedroom doorway. There are no suggestions in the parenting manuals for this. It’s not something you can ask grandparents or friends about. Well, not without judgement, anyway.
I lean against the wall for a moment. I wonder if perhaps we should stay home tonight, but the thought of it brings tightness to my chest so I can barely breathe. There are only so many of these wine and dine schmooze-fests at this time of year. If I’m not there to impress potential clients, someone else will be. I close my eyes and can see the smug smile on Mark McGroady’s face as he gloats about how he snatched all the big investors, like a bully at a lolly-scramble, and I missed out. The bastard.
I sigh. I need the capital. The funds are perilously low.
I push myself away from the wall and make my way to the bedroom. Allison is dressed and ready now. She’s a vision, her hair curled and held back at the sides with glittering jewelled pins. I know they’re the same pins she’s worn to a couple of these things already and she’ll be self-conscious about it, but the gems are real and wealth inspires confidence in investors. The appearance of wealth, anyway.
She has laid my suit and tie on the bed ready for me to change. I haven’t had a new suit in two years. It’s pilled, just a bit, at the back of the collar.
I finger the sleeve. ‘I’m worried about Madison.’
‘Why?’ Allison looks up from lighting a candle. She has laid several of them around the room. It would be romantic were it not for the pentagram and the bowl made of bone.
‘I just ...’ My voice drifts off. I’m not sure what to say; how to explain it. ‘Maybe we should get a proper babysitter this time. A real one.’
Allison snorts. ‘And where do you think we’ll find a reliable, live babysitter at this time of night?’ She upends the bowl and spreads grave dirt on the carpet. ‘Besides, babysitters are expensive.’
I sigh. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ I pick up the athame and prick my finger with it. A few drops of blood and the summoning has begun. I’m sure she’ll be OK one more time.