The (Alien) Nanny for Christmas by Amanda Milo

Author:Amanda Milo [Milo, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-09T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 10

GWEN

Thanks to Mitteeku playing hard with Austin—a game called ‘hunt and seek’ that sounds (and looks) a little terrifying when you consider that one participant could crush, maim, and eat the toddler—but it’s Austin’s FAVORITE game and he laughs and laughs. And then he sleeps like a rock afterwards.

It’s glorious, and I’m taking some ‘me’ time. It’s a Sunday I haven’t had to pick up a shift at work, and I’m reading books. I love books. I’ve missed books. I’ve devoured three in almost as many hours—and they are the chock full of crazy type reads: I’ve stumbled onto Amish romances. Hey—don’t judge. They’re like reading Tragedy Bingo: young loves separated by circumstance and/or tragic event, miscarriages, rapes, shunnings, fatal buggy accidents taking out the potential hero love interest followed by a shocking revelation—gasp, our heroine is secretly adopted!, floods, fires, catastrophes, cancer—all packed into eighty-six ereader pages. By the time I’m done, I’ve cried until I feel hollow, and all my life events seems like freaking candyland by comparison.

I’m twelve short (but shock-filled) chapters into book three when a knock raps on my bedroom door. I’m so startled, I drop my ereader on my face.

A knock? If one of my kids needs me, they always just walk in. I’m a mom: I don’t get privacy. “Yes?” I ask the door, rolling over and rubbing my now-tender nose as I toss my ereader onto my pillow and sit up.

Through the door, Mitteeku says, “Liquid is dripping into the basement. I believe it is originating from the males’ bathing and cleansing unit.”

I’m up and following him to the basement before he can say another word. When we get there, I do indeed see a dripping pipe. I’m so dismayed by this (I was so hopeful that it was something else, like unicorn tears or Ecco’s Tides of Time seawater spilling down in a harmless, virtual reality sort of way—something, anything but a real leak) that it takes me a moment to sense the tension in Mitteeku.

I’m about to ask him what’s wrong, but I think I know: I’m in his part of the house now.

I’m with him in his private space. I’m essentially standing in his bedroom.

And it’s so him: neat and orderly, unassuming, quiet.

But tucked under an old, mismatched kitchen chair that’s been stored down here, my eyes catch on a crate with an odd assortment of items. One item in particular sure has my attention: “Are those my pantyhose?”

Mitteeku’s ears fall behind his shoulders. “Yes.”

“The ones I threw away?” I ask, knowing that they are—I can see the run in the leg of them from here, it was that bad.

“The same,” he confirms, his coloration turning into a brighter scarlet, like a scaly-not-feathered phoenix.

I want to ask more—but there’s water being steadily fed through a pipe in the ceiling onto the basement floor between our feet, so we’ve got more important issues to cover.

Plus, I can admit to myself that I don’t press for more of an explanation because it doesn’t bother me.

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