Page 102 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

“Bobby Dillon pooped his pants one time in nursery school. P-U! Teacher had to open the window to farm-a-gate the room.

“When I grow up I’m gonna be a dog groomer or an astronaut.”

“Good choices, kiddo. And diverse!”

“I know what divers are. They have them at the pool at the Atlantis Hotel.

“Are you gonna marry my Mommy?”

“I hope so.”

That got Salome’s attention, big-time. She turned slowly to look directly at him, after blowing more lemon vapor.

He winked at her. “I can only hope,” he said with a shrug.

“Do I gotta call you Daddy then?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Sometimes you’re a poopyhead.”

“I know. It’s a guy thing.”

“Mommy says that’s a bad word.”

“It is, for a little girl.”

“You mean, it’s okay for big people to use bad words?”

“Not really. You should probably use a substitute word. Find something else about the person you don’t like that isn’t so offensive.”

She probably didn’t understand a word he’d said, but she surprised him by saying, “Sometimes Gramma says I’m stubborn. Are you stubborn sometimes?”

“I am.”

“Stubb-head, that’s a better word then, right?”

“I suppose so.”

On and on she went till his head started to ache. He hadn’t slept yet, and it was catching up with him. Maybe in the car on the two ferry rides back to Bell Cove he could catch a catnap or two.

Salome handed Maggie her portable DVD player and told her to watch that for a while. From then on until they reached the hospital parking lot, he kept hearing, over and over, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life.” Sometimes Maggie sang along in her high-pitched, tone-deaf, kiddie voice, which was more like shouting than singing.

He was amused, the first two or three times he heard the song. After five or six, he was rolling his eyes at Salome. “Does she ever get tired of it?”

“Nope. Earplugs help sometimes.”

When they got to his mother’s hospital room on the third floor, his mother was sitting up in bed, looking much better, or at least she’d lost her on-death’s-door pallor. His father, who was reading the New York Times in a lounge chair at the foot of the bed, stood when they entered. He had to give them credit, their eyes only widened a bit on seeing the guests. Maggie in her bedhead hair (Someone forgot to comb her hair. Holy hell! Should it have been me? Is that what I’ve taken on here?) with her portable DVD player in one hand and dragging that huge, bedraggled dog in the other. And then there was Salome in white capri pants, a “Hot (Grand)Mama” T-shirt, wedgie sandals, and about a gallon of makeup, which she’d applied in the restroom on the last ferry ride.

He introduced everyone, and before he could stop her, Maggie dropped the dog, put her DVD player aside, and crawled up on the bed next to his mother, advising, “Scooch over.”

His mother, too stunned to protest, did as she was asked and Maggie cuddled up next to her. He doubted anyone in her life had ever told his mother to “scooch.”

Maggie was fascinated by the cannula that came out of his mother’s nose and asked, “Does it take out all the snot?”

His mother actually let out a snort of laughter and said, “No, my dear. It brings oxygen . . . fresh air . . . into my body from that machine over there.”

“Oh. So you can breathe better?”