Page 7 of Endless Southern Love

Ever since the night in question, Goldie has been clingier than usual. I’m not complaining, but I don’t like that my daughter experienced some type of trauma or witnessed her mother going through what she did. Especially at the hands of her stepfather. The world is confusing enough for a seven-year-old. Goldie didn’t need this as well.

“It looks like Grandma went shopping.”

Goldie nods. “Do I have to go to school?”

“Yes,” I say, tickling her sides. She lets out a sweet giggle and tickles me back.

“And I’ll be there two days a week,” my mom says. She put her name down as a class volunteer, which is something I would like to do, but my schedule doesn’t allow for it.

“What if no one likes me?” Goldie asks. Her normally happy tone shifts to a sad one and it breaks my heart. There are a few kids Goldie’s age that I know from my landscaping contracts but none of my friends have kids yet, and when Goldie’s visiting, she’s often with my parents doing whatever they can cram in before she has to go back to Jacksonville.

“Nonsense,” my mom says as she taps the table. “Everyone is going to love you, and Ms. Matson is a fabulous teacher.”

“How do you know?” Goldie asks her grandmother.

“Because we do yoga together, and I’ve heard through the grapevine.”

Goldie laughs and shakes her head. “Grammie, you can’t listen to everything Ms. Linda says. She’s old.”

I stifle a laugh. “Marigold, it’s not nice to call people old.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Mom adds. I roll my eyes at my mother. Here Ana and I are trying to teach our daughter impeccable manners, and my mother is encouraging questionable behavior. I have nothing else to say and direct Goldie to the slew of things my mother bought her.

“Wow, this is pretty neat,” I say as I hold up the relic known as the Trapper Keeper. “I think Grandpa had one of these when he was a bit older than you.”

“They’re making a comeback,” Mom says as she beckons Goldie toward her. She sits on her grandma’s lap, and they go through everything, leaving the clothes for last. After a full fashion show, where my daughter declares every article of clothing her favorite, we pile into my mom’s car and head to Mimi’s Gasoline Grove for lunch.

Thankfully, only the locals and some out-of-towners who have been here before know the secret deep frying inside of Mimi’s. She has the best catfish in all of Alabama. You can eat while the guys fill your gas tank, wash your windshield, and check your oil.

My nerves are on fire, to the point where I think everything—and I do mean everything—itches. It’s a silly notion, especially since I took two showers before even getting dressed. With everything making me twitchy like I’ve got ants crawling all over me, it reminds me of summer camp when some prankster would bring itching powder into the cabin and sprinkle it all over our sleeping bags. Of course, this was a fear when your parents tell you you’re going to summer camp and assure you nothing will go wrong.

It doesn’t help that Goldie is probably feeding off my energy. She barely ate and told her mom via video chat before we left that she didn’t need school and suggested we take her to Hollywood where she can become an actress. Only, Goldie didn’t say Hollywood and instead used Dollywood. Ana and I did a stand-up job not laughing.

Before heading to the elementary school, I detour to the high school and check out the football field. Last winter, the school finally converted to a turf field, and while turf isn’t my friend and could put me out of a job, I manage the grassy area around the field. During the install, the people hired didn’t protect any of the surrounding area and left far too many dirt spots in what I considered a flawless green space.

“What are we doing here?” Marigold asks.

“I just need to check and make sure the grass is growing in a couple of spots.”

After parking, Goldie climbs over the console and out my door, knowing I would’ve opened the door for her. She chose to wear a yellow dress for Meet Your Teacher Night, saying she wanted to impress Miss Willa. I told her it wasn’t necessary but I’m also not going to tell her she can’t wear what she wants. At least, not right now. Junior high and high school are a different story.

Goldie skips along and holds my hand as we make it over to the football field. When I crouch down to inspect the fullness of the regrowth, I’m pleased the boys haven’t torn up the new grass with their cleats and more appreciative that Coach Lincoln is teaching the boys to have respect for grass.

“Daddy, can I play on the field?”

As much as I should tell her no, I don’t and nod. She takes off running and then does a couple of cartwheels, followed by a flip. I pull out my phone, turn on the video camera, and ask her to do it again. She does, and I’m able to capture it all and send it to her mom.

(Text) Did you sign her up for gymnastics yet?

Not yet, but I will tomorrow.

Tell her I love her.

She loves you, Ana.

My heart breaks for Ana and while I’m grateful for this time with my daughter, I can’t imagine what Ana’s going through. In the blink of an eye, her world flipped upside down.

I let Goldie somersault and cartwheel her way to the end of the field and then herd her back to the truck. She seems to have a lot of energy now, which I’m hoping isn’t a bad thing. She’s such a sweet little girl, I want everyone to love her. Mostly, I want her to make friends and not feel out of place in Magnolia Grove. I don’t know how long this is going to be her home, but until then, I need her to be happy.

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