“Of course.”
Grant stepped into the bathroom, freezing in his tracks when the lid rose by itself.
“Go on! That’s its way of welcoming you.”
Patrick and Maisie turned away to give Grant his privacy.
“I still don’t understand how it washes you,” she grumbled.
“Oh. It has a retractable cleansing wand. That’s what the remote is for. When you’re done, you know, it squirts you with clean water and you can select the temperature and the pressure.”
“Squirts you . . . where?”
Patrick rubbed his temples, but Grant thankfully interrupted. “How do you flush it?”
“I got it, bud!” He leaned down, hovered his finger over the remote control until he found the right button, and said to Maisie, “Press that one,” and she did.
“Cooooool!” Grant said, his face over the bowl. “It’th lighting up again!” Patrick guessed he was over his fear of ghosts.
Maisie however was not as easily distracted. She still looked up at her uncle for an answer to her question.
“Where? You know. You’re going to make me say it? Your undercarriage.” Patrick felt like he was losing her. “Here, give me that.” He reached out and took the remote control and stepped into the bathroom. “Grant. Want to see something else really cool? Put your face over the bowl.” Patrick glanced over his shoulder to make sure Maisie was watching.
“What am I looking for?” Grant asked.
“Watch.” Patrick pressed one of the buttons and the cleansing wand slowly extended.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like a robot.” Grant was transfixed.
“Keep looking.” Patrick studied the remote until he found another button to press and the wand spritzed water, squirting Grant in the face.
Grant screamed. And just as Patrick had hoped, Maisie laughed.
“You spwayed me!”
“Here, kid.” Patrick tossed Grant a hand towel and it landed right on his face.
“That’s tho gross!” He reached up, wiping the towel back and forth across his face.
“It’s clean water. It doesn’t come from the toilet. It comes from the wall. Just like the sink faucet.”
Grant pulled the towel off his head to consider this. His hair stood in a gratifying swoop. Slowly, a smile crept across his face. “Do Maisie! Do Maisie!”
Patrick expected an immediate protest but instead Maisie agreed it was a delightful idea. “Yeah, do me, do me!”
“Suit yourself, stand over the—” He didn’t even have to finish; Maisie’s head was already in position over the bowl and so he gave the button a good, long push. Maisie screamed as the water hit her right in the kisser and Grant squealed with rapturous delight. He hadn’t heard such laughter out of anyone in, he couldn’t recall. A long time. Once, when he first held Maisie (she was maybe three months old), she burst out laughing. He didn’t even know babies could do that—laugh—and even though he felt awkward holding her with all eyes in the room on him, he couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by this new bit of information.
“Now you! Now you!” Grant screamed, pointing at his uncle.
“Oh, no. There are enough nighttime serums and potions on this face to stock a Bergdorf Goodman beauty counter, so you don’t want to get it wet.”
“GUP!” Maisie protested, pronouncing his name with, like, seven u’s.
“Oh, all right, but just once.” He leaned forward only so far before activating the water. He’d done enough in the way of stage combat in college to act like he’d been hit in the face with a geyser, while missing the brunt of the stream. He threw his arm over his face as he retreated, spinning into the towel rack. The kids laughed and laughed and then he, too, broke down in fits of uncontrollable giggles. It was so stupid, but it was a release, a ray of sunshine bursting through the dark cloud they’d been under.
“My turn!” Grant roared, and he stepped forward and bowed over the washlet.
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Guncle Rule number six.” Just as Grant turned his neck to look up at his uncle, Patrick let fly with a jet of water, hitting him right in the ear. Grant squealed again, equal parts shock and glee. “Never let your guard down!”
“Me! Me! Me!” Maisie jumped up and down, begging for another go.
“Well, okay, but there is a drought. So let’s not go crazy.” But as Maisie stood freshly soaked, wiping water out of her eyes, Patrick realized washlet humor was a kind of toilet humor he could get behind.
When Patrick marched the kids back to their bedroom, Grant tugged on his shorts. “Uncle Patrick? The tooth fairy hasn’t come yet.”
The tooth fairy. Patrick had forgotten. He was now grateful for this middle-of-the-night interruption, imagining the epic morning meltdown that was in store if the tooth fairy failed to make her rounds.
“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep for her to come?”
“Yes,” Maisie answered before Grant had the chance to.
“Are you asleep now?”
“No,” Grant mumbled, admitting defeat.
“Well, then. I suggest you hop to it.” Patrick tucked them in before summoning his inner fairy and scouring the house for loot.
SIX
Maisie swiveled on a barstool as Patrick stood across the counter from her, waving a spatula. “What’s the matter? You haven’t touched your pancakes.” The seats were made of seafoam upholstery with a low walnut back floating on top of pneumatic height-adjusting chrome stands, a jackpot find from a local thrift store. Maisie languidly kicked her feet against them as if they were from Ikea and somehow deserved her scuff marks and replied with only a yawn.
It was almost two in the morning when they finally conked out, allowing Patrick to slide the tooth fairy’s offerings under Grant’s pillow, so he could sympathize with Maisie’s exhaustion if not her apparent lack of appetite. It was rare his modern kitchen was used for anything close to food preparation on one of Rosa’s days off (unless coffee, protein shakes, or cocktails counted as food); this should be an event. He even, for the first
