The Pony

Sandra jumps on my bed, narrowly missing my head. She’s saying something. I can’t tell what until I take out my earplugs.

“Daddy! Schoo-schoo!”

Sandra never wakes up before me. By design.

I am to wake up to the smell of the coffee that Angelica brews automatically. I am to go downstairs and greet Angelica who so diligently greets me with the sweet smell of the only thing that gets me through the day. Angelica is my favorite appliance in the whole house. I would take Angelica over Air Conditioning.

Sandra’s foot connects with my jaw and I know one very distinct thing. Angelica is broken.

I stare at the ceiling feeling dull grey vacuousness consume me.

Sandra shakes me.

“DADDY! SCHOO-SCHOO!”

Frozen in mourning for Angelica, all my will goes into turning my head to look at her.

My routine? Decimated. Might as well obliterate it.

“School is not happening today,” I tell Sandra.

Her eyes go wide and she flops onto her bottom; the bed goes ba-boing, ba-boing.

“Snow day?”

I think about yesterday’s walk with Sandra through the park to look at the bright green grass and flowers. Maybe keeping her out of school for a day is a mistake. Then again, Maybe she needs an even more specialized school.

“No.”

There’s a moment I think I’ll spend an eon in bed. Sandra overwhelms this moment with a goo-goo tirade on cartoon dogs. I’m up.

Her physical blows I can handle, but her chatter gashes my psyche in a way few things can.

I return from the bathroom-closet in fresh sweats. I skip the shave. Sandra rubs her hands across my face as I scoop her up to get changed.

“Scwatchy,” she says.

We’re getting coffee first thing. Closest place.

“You don’t have to wear your uniform today,” I say.

“PWINCESS!”

Of course.

I grab a tule monstrosity from her wardrobe, one-hand-texting my boss that I won’t be coming in. I also fib a quick email to the school.

As if reflecting my guilty conscience, Sandra flings herself onto her castle-shaped rug and sobs, beating her fists. If that castle was real, the royal treasury would have a fund allocated to Giantess Defense.

I kneel down.

“What’s the matter Sandy-pie?”

“PWINCESS!!!!”

I check the dress in my hand. Baby-blue, poofy, crowns. I don’t see the problem.

Her howling deepens my eye-bags. I hallucinate a vision of a normal morning: Angelica simmering away, sanity strong.

“This is a princess dress.”

Clearly the wrong thing to say.

“I-WAH! Wa-WAH! Pw-WAH! Cessssssss!!!”

I scramble to my feet and hold up every dress in the closet, her screams getting louder with each wrong choice. I even try her school uniform. My heart beats faster from the stress. Work is easy compared to this.

Sandra stops. My breathing returns. But for being pink, this dress is exactly the same as the first. I’m going to murder the manufacturer.

Sandra sniffles as I help her get the pink thing on. We survive.

Discombobulated, I nearly forget to duck my head passing under the doorframe, but I remember at the last second.

On the stairs, I use my phone to find the closest coffee-serving establishment, navigating my vision around Sandra’s matted hair.

My foot touches cold tile, informing me I’ve reached the bottom of the stairs.

I don’t know how I know, but I know something is wrong.

I pocket my phone and place my hand protectively around the back of Sandra’s head. She seems to sense something is off and goes completely quiet.

I tiptoe into the kitchen. Angelica didn’t just die of old age. No. She was murdered.

My poor coffee-maker lies shattered across the ground in innumerable pieces.

And not just her.

Pots, pans and recipe books lay strewn about and ripped up. The back door stands slightly ajar, letting in the peaceful hum of the neighbor’s lawnmower.

I’ve never felt like such a failure. We had a break-in and I didn’t notice. My grip tightens on Sandra. My baby. Thank God she’s still with me.

Whoever did this could still be here. Lurking.

I back out of the kitchen and swipe the keys from the entry table. Barefoot, I run out of the house and feel relief jolt through me that the car still rests in the driveway.

I slow-up to duck around the corner of the house.

“Daddy-”

“Shh.”

No one.

I dart across the driveway and unlock the car, checking the windows for suspicious movement. Clear.

Once we’re inside I lock the car faster than a lone woman at a gas station.

Sandra pushes back against my chest to look at me.

“Daddy, what about my ‘ooster seat?”

“It’s okay, Sandy-pie, we’re doing things a special way today.”

“Can I dwive?”

“Sure, pumpkin.”

As long as she’s still with me, she can have whatever she wants.

I drive jittery, looking out the windows and in my mirrors every couple seconds. I make sure to keep my face calm so Sandra doesn’t notice my distress.

She couldn't care less. Happily, she pretends to drive. According to her, we’re now a horse-drawn carriage.

We end up at the address already set in my phone, which turns out to be a familiar McDonald’s that’s saved me with many a quick, Sandra-approved meal. I find our beach flip-flops in the trunk, saving us from the barefoot-boot-out.

Coffee’s in front of me before I even realize we’ve ordered. It seems despite everything, my priorities haven’t changed.

I ignore Sandra whining to go play in the McDonald’s kids’ area. I keep her stuck with me in our booth. I can’t stand being separated from her right now. I need to see her here with me.

I guess I should call the police.

I’m used to dealing with things on my own. I’m seven feet tall! I usually am the help.

No. I’ve changed. I can ask for help. I’ve done it before.

“Finish your Happy Meal.”

Sandra can tell I’m serious. She takes a little bite of her nuggies.

My fingers hover over my phone.

“I’d like to report a break-in… No, I didn’t notice anything missing…”

“Daddy! Open!”

I pull the seal off Sandra’s chocolate milk.

“We left as soon as I noticed what happened. I’m not sure, but whoever it was could still be there.”

“It was a pony, Daddy!”

“Shh! No, officer, not you! I’m sorry, what?”

“PONY! DADDY! PONY! DADDY!”

Twenty minutes later, my nerves settle enough to let Sandra climb around the McDonald’s kids’ area. (That, and she ate two whole nuggies.)

A police officer arrives while I’m watching her, vigilant.

“Mr. Brooker?” the officer says. It’s an officer I’ve met before.

“Was it Annie?” I say it calmly, but my heart is shaking.

He pats me on the back.

“No.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief.

“We confirmed. Mrs. Brooker is secure. Ocean Way Recovery Center’s probably serving her lunch right about now, so don’t you worry yourself about that.”

“She’s not Mrs. Brooker anymore,” I say.

He looks surprised.

Sandra giggles down at me on hands and knees. Through the red clear plastic, you can clearly see the little scar on her palm.

He nods.

I feel relieved, but can’t say for sure why.

Sandra flies down the slide, a staticky ball of tule, and sticks herself to my leg. She looks up at the officer.

“Pony came!” she tells him.

“How nice. Do you like ponies?”

She shakes her head.

“NOT nice! NOT nice. Pony messy!”

He quirks up an eyebrow, but a call on his radio takes him away.

I brush the top of Sandra’s hair, earning myself a static shock.

“Ouch! What about this pony, Sandra?”

I really want to understand her. Someday she’ll grow-up, and she’ll talk and she’ll probably always make sense. But I want to understand her even before that. I have to. I’m all she’s got.

The officer breaks my train of thought.

“Mr. Brooker? I think we’ve found your vagrant.”

The neighbor’s security cameras detected deer. Lots of deer. That was all.

“Sandra, did you let in a pony?” the officer asks.

“In! AND out!”

I dare you to find more pride in a child’s voice.

One thing’s for certain: I’m trashing my earplugs.

I’d spent a very long time thinking that a serious problem wasn’t serious. Now that something serious has ended up being nothing, the whole world feels topsy-turvy.

“One other thing,” the officer — Officer Paul — says, “My wife’s a hairdresser…”

I look at Sandra and turn red as the plastic slide.

Officer Paul’s wife makes a house call. She sorts Sandra’s hair in the backyard while I sweep up poor Angelica’s remains from the kitchen floor.

“Daddy! Look! I’m a pwincess!” Sandra leaps into my arms. Her hair has never looked better. Little pink bows pepper the sides.

Mrs. Paul comes in and begins lecturing me about how to better manage Sandra’s hair. I nod along.

“And shave that stubble!” she commands.

“Yes, m’am.”

Sandra hugs me.

“Love you, Daddy! No more ponies!”

“I love you, Sandy-pie.”

We are in this together.

The next day, I take Sandra to school. Her hair is done. My face is smooth. We go through the drive-through for coffee and a Happy Meal.