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  TWO

When you’re ready to get serious, call me. When you’re ready to come home and…when you’re ready to grow up. 

Dasha considers her father’s offer, made two weeks ago. Or was it two years ago? Two minutes? 

It doesn’t matter. Dasha isn’t about to call her father, or call anyone. She’s lost her phone. 

“You don’t need a phone,” says Mark. He knows what she’s scrabbling for in the seat. Or maybe he’s made of magic. “You’re just a little girl.”

Dasha sits up in the seat, folds her arms, ready to debate the issue. Phone or age? She could talk until she’s blue in the face and who wants to look like a smurf?

Because she doesn’t have a phone, and she looks like a little girl. 

Not that little. She looks at her windowed reflection. She’s not a baby. 

But she was older when she got on the plane, right? Because Mark is her boyfriend. 

She looks at him and her stomach flutters. She can’t be mad at him. She loves him. Real love, like in a story. Like if she eats the bad apple and falls asleep, he’ll wake her up with a kiss. No doubt about it. 

Still, it would be nice to have her phone. 

“What would you even do with it?” asks Mark, and this time, surely he is made of magic. 

Dasha shrugs. And then her face brightens. “Play a game!”

“Huh. What kind of game?”

Another shrug. The questions Mark has asked since Dasha woke from her nap have all led down the same path. Something childish, something that makes Dasha want to giggle. Because it turns out she’s not a smart cookie. She’s a silly one. 

Silly cookie? 

Dasha’s stomach flutters again, but this time it’s audible. 

“You’re hungry,” Mark announces. 

“I know.” Dasha watches as Mark presses a button above his head. A flight attendant appears within seconds. 

She smiles down at Dasha. “Hey there sleepy-head! You woke up!”

Dasha twists her lips and fusses with her hair. It’s longer than it was before, the one thing that grew while the rest of her shrank. 

“Maria, could you bring her a snack?”

Dasha opens her mouth. “What about lunch?”

Mark shook his head. “You slept through it.”

“But you said in first class they’ll do anything. You said they-“

“Hey,” Mark says, holding up his hand. “Hush, that’s way too loud.”

Dasha stage-whispers, “You said they-“

“No, stop.” He looks up at the attendant. “Some crackers?”

The attendant nods and smiles. “Of course.” She saves her sweetest, most syrupy smile for Dasha. “I’ll be right back, hon.”

Dasha feels the need to kick her feet. She doesn’t do it. 

She feels the need to say something mean. She goes for it. 

“That lady is ugly.”

Mark turns to Dasha and puts a firm hand on her arm. “Excuse me?”

Dasha looks at his expression. She can get away with anything, he’ll put up with…

She looks down at her lap. “Sorry,” she whispers. 

“We’re going to talk about how we speak to people, how we speak about people, when we get home.”

Home. That’s the brownstone in the heart of Brooklyn Heights. All her clothes are there, and they’re too big. All her jewelry is there, and the rings won’t fit on her fingers, the earrings won’t sit in her un-pierced ears. She rubs her left earlobe with her thumb and forefinger. 

Maria comes back, making Dasha blush with her honey-sweet niceness. What would she do if she knew what Dasha had said behind her back? 

Dasha cringes in her seat, but the good news is there are now goldfish crackers, and a plastic tumbler of sparkling liquid. 

There it is. The same thing she was served when she came on board. In a cup this time instead of a glass flute, but still!

Dasha picks up the tumbler and takes a luxurious sip. 

For a second, she is humiliated. After that, she’s over it. Turns out, Sprite is fantastic.

“What do you say?” Mark asks. 

Dasha smiles at the attendant. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Marie replies smoothly. And then she says, “I noticed you don’t have any stuffies with you.”

Dasha looks at the woman with a confounded expression. Did she say stuffies? Like Dasha is a dumb baby?

It’s Mark’s turn to look embarrassed. “We packed in a hurry.”

“Well,” Maria says, “this probably isn’t as good as what you’ve got back home, but…” She holds out a gray, plush airplane with an American flag on the tail. “Something to hold onto.”

Dasha takes the toy. “Thanks,” she says without too much enthusiasm. She strokes it absent-mindedly. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mark tells Maria. 

“It’s no problem at all,” Maria replies. “You two look so cute together.” She beams at them. “Quite the due.”

Dasha narrows her eyes. She doesn’t like the way Mark looks at the attendant. Truth is, Maria isn’t ugly. Quite the opposite. There probably isn’t any such thing as an ugly flight attendant. 

Maria is blonde. What if Mark likes that more? What if he likes girls who have actual make-up on?

Let’s be honest. Maria is a grown-up. 

Dasha crams crackers into her mouth as she considers the possibilities, which are admittedly dim and jumbled in her mind. Worst, least-refreshing nap ever. 

“Well, Dash and I appreciate it,” Mark says warmly the attendant. 

Maria nods. Let me know if you need anything else. She smiles at Dasha. “All your daddy has to do is press that button and I’ll come running.”

Dasha follows the direction of the attendant’s finger and then shakes her head. “He’s not my daddy!” she exclaims, exhaling cracker crumbs down her front. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Mark glares at her. For what? Telling the truth? 

No, it’s more confusing than that. Something else to ‘talk about’ once they get back to Jerome Street. 

“Well,” Dasha whispers, “You are.”

“And you’re making a mess all over the seat, Dash,” says Mark, brushing crumbs into his palm with a napkin. 

Maria laughs gently. “I think he’s a little old for you, hon.”

Dasha could laugh as well, watching the attendant walk away. Because isn’t that what people have been telling her, ever she hooked up with Mark? 

Hooked up. Whatever that means. Sounds like fishing. Sounds like…Captain Hook! Dasha wrinkles her nose at an anxious memory of a movie she was much too young to see. 

“Finish your soda,” Mark says. 

Dasha takes a sip and shakes her head. “I’m done.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Of course you are.” And then his expression softens and he puts his arm around her. For a moment, he is surely going to lift her onto his lap, and Dasha wouldn’t mind that in the slightest. He could stroke her neck again like last time. 

He could sing to her!

She smiles at him. “What was the song?”

“Song?”

“You know. The one about…the one about the diamond ring and the mirror…” 

She frowns at the sound of a crying baby. “Oh, come on! Not that again!”

“Babies cry,” Mark says. “That’s their job.”

“No, it’s not. Babies don’t have a job.”

Mark appears to consider the idea. He taps her nose. “You don’t have a job. That make you a baby?”

“No,” she replies sulkily. 

“Nothing wrong with being a baby, Dash.” He whistles. “No, ma’am. No job, no…” Here, he pokes Dasha gently in her ribs. “No homework. Just playing and sleeping and cuddles.” He winks at her. “Reckon you could handle that.”

“Of course I could…I could handle it, but I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Another of Mark’s confusing questions. 

“Because I already been a baby! I’m supposed to grow up, get bigger.”

Mark sighs. “Sure you want to do that?” He gestures towards the sound of the wailing infant. “She might not be having such a rosy time right now, but you know what?” He leans in and whispers in Dasha’s ear. “Her daddy’s right there. Rocking her. Singing to her. Sending her to dreamland.” He gives her cheek the lightest of kisses and Dash feels giddy. “Doesn’t that just sound perfect?”

It does. 

“And if that looking glass gets broke, Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat.”

How well Mark sings. How did Dasha not know this before? What has she been missing? Mark should sing all the time!

“And if that billy goat don't pull, Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull.”

Dasha giggles. It’s a silly song, and she looks up at Marks kind face. What a good man, what a nice man. She should stop asking questions, she should just accept what’s happened. She squeezes the gray airplane in her hands. 

Mark strokes her hair, just as promised. Dasha feels her head loll forward, just like last time. She smiles blandly as Mark’s fingers trace the skin on her neck. 

“And if that cart and bull turn over, Papa's gonna buy you a dog called Rover.”

Dasha giggles more loudly. Such a silly song! And now, even though she wants to be Mark’s sleepy baby and go to dreamland, it seems impossible. 

Because when she thinks back – sideways? – to her family pet, it’ wasn’t Rover. What was the dog’s name again?

“My dog’s…” she starts, “my dog’s not called Rover!” She turns her head to see Mark’s expression. Will she make him laugh? Of will he be angry at the interruption? 

Mark doesn’t look mad, and while he’s not laughing out loud, Dasha likes the look in his eyes. 

He holds a finger up to his lips. “Inside-plane voice, please.” 

“Sorry.”

“You not sleepy?” he asks. “You feeling cranky like the baby back there?”

“I’m not cranky,” insists Dasha. “I’m just not tired.”

“Okay,” Mark replies. “I tell you what.” He pulls out his phone. “Want to watch a movie? We can share earbuds.” He winks at her. “So romantic.”

“Yeah!” exclaims Dasha. And then she whispers, “Sorry. Yeah. Yes please.”

Mark gives her a somber look. “So you want to be a big girl after all? Want to grow up and work and do that serious stuff?”

Dasha squeezes her stuffie. “Umm…” What does she want? She wants her diamond ring, she wants her looking glass. She wants her perfect, singing boyfriend. She gives the airplane a squeeze. “Do I havta work? Can’t I just stay home and, you know, when you come home, I’m all pretty?”

Mark exhales. “I just don’t want you getting bored, Dash.”

She shakes her head vigorously, her long hair covering her face and leaving her with a fit of giggles. “I won’t! I promise.” And then the cries from the baby make her groan. “That daddy isn’t doing a very good job,” she says tersely. 

“You’re a mess,” says Mark, stroking Dasha’s hair out of her face. “Can’t watch a move with all that in the way.”

Dasha smiles, sitting patiently as Mark tidies her hair. She can wait, she can show her manners. She’s not a baby. 

“Maybe the baby’s daddy needs to try something new,” Mark says softly. “Maybe the song doesn’t work every time.”

Dasha nods. “Not every time,” she agrees. Even though the mere memory of that song makes her smile. 

“Maybe he won’t sing,” Mark says, stroking Dasha’s hair and then her face, making her produce a relaxed sigh. He whispers, “Maybe he won’t even talk.”

Dasha laughs when Mark brings his hand down over her face in a sweeping motion. 

“Hey,” she says, giggling. “You’re making it dark.”

“Come on,” Mark says, “let’s get comfy for our movie.” He pulls Dasha gently onto his lap. And then he starts the stroking motions again. Her hair, around her face, and then down past her eyes. 

“Hey,” Dasha murmurs, but she doesn’t have much else to say. Her eyes are heavy, and Mark’s touch is both pleasurable and tranquilizing at the same time. 

“Yes,” says Mark softly, “I bet Daddy does this. A soft stroke to let his cranky girl know that she’s safe, and then he sweeps down with his hand to let her know it’s time to close those silly eyes and go to dreamland.”

“I’m noh…noh cranky,” Dasha mutter, and then she feels her entire body relax. Instead of her head falling forward, this time, she leans back against Mark’s strong chest. 

“No, you’re not a cranky baby,” whispers Mark, bringing his hand around her face and over her eyes again. “You’re just a sleepy baby. You just need to go to dreamland.”

He sings, so softly, so perfectly, that Dasha’s heart aches with happiness. 

“And if that dog called Rover don't bark, Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart.”

He kisses her cheek. “And when you wake up, you’ll be my perfect baby girl. And you won’t have to work, you won’t have to lift a finger. But you won’t need a diamond ring either. You’ll be perfectly happy with your stuffie.”

“Buh…wanna…”

Dasha tries to open her eyes, she tries to protest, but one more sweep down of Marks hand leaves her eyes shut tight, and her mouth speechless. 

“And if that horse and cart turn round, you'll still be the sweetest little babe in town.”

There’s no diamond ring in Dasha’s dream. But there is a looking glass. A mirror with a colorful handle, a mirror that rattles pleasingly when she shakes it. And what a face, round and bright-eyed. There’s the baby, and Daddy must have done a good job after all, because Dasha can’t believe she’s ever seen such a happy baby. 

THE END