David Heiller
“I want Emlee.”
My daughter, Malika, lay in the strange bed in the strange house of my sister, in the strange state of Texas. It was the first night of our vacation.
“You want what?” I asked with a smile.
“I want Emlee,” the two-year-old repeated.
I walked out of the room, Emily’s room, where Malika had staked her claim for a week. Emily sat in the kitchen with the rest of the family.
“Guess who Mollie wants to see?” I said, looking at my niece.
Emily laughed and walked past me to her room—no, to their room.
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| Malika and Emily |
Emily and Mollie took to each other right away on our vacation last week. The first night, after saying goodnight to “Emlee,” Malika woke up several times. Emily held her for a few minutes, and told her, “You know, if you want, you can just come over to my bed, you don’t have to cry.” Some 12-year-old girls would have called to their mother for help, or at least complained in the morning. Emily didn’t complain.
“Oh, she woke up a few times, but I just talked to her and held her, and she went right back to sleep,” Emily reported the first morning. Even the five o’clock wake up time didn’t faze her.
After passing that test, Emily had Mollie’s trust. The next night, instead of crying when she woke up, she followed Emily’s instructions, walked over to her bed, and said, “Hey, pick me up.” She even started waking up later, setting a new personal record of 7 a.m. the last morning of vacation. Cindy and I were down-right jealous.
Emily had a few tricks of her own for Malika. Like most girls about to enter the abyss of teenage-hood, Emily has a growing collection of jewelry. The afternoon we arrived, Emily presented Malika with a bright cardboard box, half the size of a shoe box. Inside, Malika found a colorful beaded necklace and bracelet. Call it simple bribery, but Malika did not let that “necketts” and bracelet leave her sight for the next five days.
The real clincher game in the middle of the week. Emily, Malika and I had taken the car in for an oil change. Emily pointed out the nearby sites and stores. “And there’s a really good deli down there,” she added. “We ate there once.”
So I swung the car down to the deli. Normally I would not take Malika to a restaurant, even an uncrowded delicatessen at 10 in the morning. Putting her in a restaurant is like putting a screen door on a submarine. You usually end up with disaster on your hands.
But this time I did, inspired by the luck of Emily. I ordered pastries and bowl of fruit, plus a cookie for Malika. We sat at the table peacefully at first. But as soon as I opened the sports section of the morning newspaper, Malika slipped off her chair, and headed toward the kitchen.
“Grab her, would you?” I said to Emily without glancing up. She caught the whirlwind and set her at the table next to us. There, Malika discovered a small tray full of tiny packages of sugar, cream, and other fine playthings for a two-year-old. We ate the rest of our breakfast in peace, while Malika rearranged the tray and its contents. It was another miracle.
The day before we left, I went to the store with Emily and her father, Dan, to buy some food for the 1,000 mile trip home. Emily helped me find a few things, then disappeared to another part of the store. She met us at the check-out counter. With a self-conscious laugh, she showed me her bootie—a set of miniature cars for our son, Noah, and a new necklace and bracelet for Malika. When we got back to the house, Emily couldn’t wait to present the gifts. She helped Mollie open the package. Malika ran over to me with a smile. “Lookit my new necketts,” she said.
We left the next day. I said goodbye to Dan and Mary, their sons Peter, 16, and Adam, five. I gave a special hug to Emily. Malika did too.
We drove north through the night. First the kids fell asleep, then Cindy. As I sat alone with my thoughts, I thought back about the vacation. My mind drifted to Emily and Malika. I recalled when Emily was Malika’s age, how she couldn’t stand my beard, how she wouldn’t let me close enough for a hug until she was two years old. That was when she was Mollie’s age.
I remembered how I used to play my banjo for Emily and Peter when they were older, before they moved to Texas. I knew a whole string of kids’ songs, and they knew them too. Often when we would visit, I would sing them to sleep.
As I drove through the night, Emily and Malika seemed to merge somehow, like the diesel trucks that pulled alongside on the empty highway. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and still can’t. But I caught a glimpse of a cycle of life on the vacation. I remembered Emily from years ago, remembered vague, pleasant things that I now place with my own daughter. I saw how Emily had changed, how she could now give of herself, and be thoughtful enough even to buy a gift for Malika and Noah.
Giving, and loving, is a simple thing really, and yet the essence of life and of growing up. It’s a vacation memory to ponder, and to enjoy.
