Page 46 of Sunshine
Poppy looks up at me in surprise, then slowly stands. “What?”
The idea of having Poppy by my side this morning fills me with relief, as well as a jittery kind of anticipation. I don’t think too hard about the rush I feel at finding a valid, respectable excuse to be near her, and instead focus only on the comfort of her presence.
“Come with us,” I reply. Izzy grins up at me, and her enthusiastic little wiggle is all the encouragement I need to add, “Please?”
Poppy’s smile is brighter than sunshine. “I’d love to.”
The drive to Izzy’s school takes half an hour, which is a longer trip than she’s used to, but the journey passes quickly with Poppy in the car playing games and singing along to the radio,and we pull into the school parking lot right on time. When I’m standing on the asphalt with Izzy hanging off one hand and her bag slung over my opposite shoulder, Poppy opens her door without stepping out.
“I can wait here,” she offers. “I don’t need to go in with you.”
I offer her my hand, and when she sets her fingers on my palm, I pull her out of the car. “No chance.”
Izzy leaps into the air. “Yes!”
I’m glad of the company when we walk through the oversized wrought-iron school gates. I’ve been here twice before—once for an interview with Izzy, another for a tour of the campus and a meeting with an adviser to discuss Izzy’s academic requirements—but it’s still overwhelming. The campus is larger and richer than Izzy’s elementary school, and it has a studious vibe to it. Children dressed in identical uniforms run and shout and play just like all kids this age, but there’s a different energy about the place, and I’m praying that’s a good thing.
“Where do we go?” Poppy wonders, hitching her tote bag higher onto her shoulder.
“This way,” I tell her, leading us to Izzy’s first-grade classroom. As arranged, her teacher is waiting for us, a kind-faced woman named Mrs. Marci Cooke, aged somewhere in her mid-fifties, wearing a long flowing skirt, fitted blazer, and loose scarf.
She greets Izzy first with an outstretched hand and a welcoming smile. “Hello, Izzy,” she says. “I’m so glad to see you again. I hope you’re ready for a fun day in first grade?”
Izzy nods but crowds a little closer to me, and I rub her back to soothe her.
Mrs. Cooke is prepared for Izzy’s reluctance. “Would you like to see your desk, Izzy?” She motions toward a table with Izzy’s name attached as a laminated plate. “Or perhaps take a look at our classroom library?”
Izzy’s ears prick up at the mention of the library, and Mrs. Cooke spares me a knowing smile before she shows Izzy to the back corner of the room. When Izzy’s settled on a miniature reading chair with a book on her lap, Mrs. Cooke returns and offers me her hand.
“Mr. Davenport,” she says. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
Mrs. Cooke’s smile widens as her eyes land on Poppy. “And you must be Izzy’s mother. I’m so glad you could make it today.”
Poppy shakes the teacher’s hand, her friendly smile faltering before her expression shifts into alarm. “Her mother? No. I’m just the nanny—”
“A family friend,” I say over the top of her, and we exchange an uncomfortable look, one that says neither of us knows what Poppy is right now. Neverjustthe nanny. Always more than a friend. Nothing defined. Everything implied.
“Ah.” Mrs. Cooke retracts her hand with an apologetic grimace. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“That’s okay,” I reassure her. “Izzy and Poppy are very close, and Izzy’s come to depend on her the last couple of weeks, especially leading up to this transition.” I look over at Poppy. “We’ve both come to depend on Poppy, actually.”
Poppy drops her eyes. I hope that means she’s pleased and not that I’ve said the wrong thing. Again.
“Well, I’m happy to know Isobel has a wonderful support network at home,” Mrs. Cooke says, “but I want to reassure you that I’ll keep a close eye on her. Ensure she’s making friends and enjoying her classwork. And I’ll keep you informed of her progress while we all adjust to her new routine.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, and I do. A little anxiety ebbs away, leaving behind the more general sense of worry that I’ve come to realize is part of being a parent. “Thank you.”
“I suggest you say your goodbyes without fuss,” Mrs. Cooke adds. “No need to prolong the inevitable, and I intend to introduce Izzy to a group of children I think she’ll like.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Our goodbyes are quick, Izzy drawing out our hug for only a short moment before Poppy smuggles a small box of Legos from her tote to Izzy’s backpack “just in case,” and within fifteen minutes of walking through the gates with Izzy between us, Poppy and I walk back out again. Just the two of us.
“Well. That went better than I’d hoped,” I comment as we settle in the car.
“It did,” Poppy agrees. “Izzy was happy to stay, I think.”
