Page 45 of Unbroken

I was alone for the moment and I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Josh was right. Patrick was growing up and soon enough, he wouldn’t want to spend time with his boring old dad instead of his friends. My mom laughed at something Fiona said while Patrick jumped up and down in front of them.

I did need to cherish these moments. Not just because Patrick was growing up but also because I didn’t know how much longer I would be here. When I did move on, would I be able to find friends and coworkers as great as the Caffertys? I didn’t think so.

THIRTY-ONE

FIONA

“She’s so shiny,” Patrick said as he worked the curry comb in circles over Georgia’s ebony flank.

I was hoping that distraction would help Patrick forget about the stomachache he had today, which was why he was standing on a stool brushing horses with me. His latest bout of stomach troubles meant that Eli had been forced to run to his mom’s to pick Patrick up midday again, nearly making him late to his planning meeting with Josh. I had happily stepped in to watch him. Having been told in confidence by Eli that the problem was probably more emotional than physical, I’d decided that rather than sequestering him in a bedroom, sunshine and horses might be a better idea. At the very least, they offered more of a distraction and might help the little boy open up some as to what had his insides in such knots.

“It’s because you’re doing such a great job brushing her,” I said, smiling at Patrick’s gentle handling.

“I love horses, just like my dad,” he said, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he focused on his work.

It was amazing how much he looked like his father, complete with a miniature flannel shirt, the cutest little Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots. He had his dad’s serious expression as he brushed as well.

“I love horses, too!” I said hoping to possibly gather some intel on the boy while it was just the two of us hanging out in a relaxed way. “What else do you like?”

“Um … I like dinosaurs. And Christmas.” He paused to think. “Frogs. Legos. Cupcakes.”

“That’s awesome, I like all of that stuff too.” I laughed. “Especially cupcakes. Have you tried the ones at Carly’s yet? I heard they’re super tasty.”

He nodded his head hard enough to hurt. “I like the peanut butter ones and the…uh…black and white ones.” He frowned. “I don’t know what they’re called but they have chocolate and chocolate chips and white frosting that doesn’t taste like frosting.”

I ran the comb over Misty’s flank and she sidestepped closer to me enjoying the pampering. “Hmm, I think you’re referring to tuxedo cupcakes—they’re black and white and they have a cream cheese frosting.” I rubbed my stomach with an exaggerated gesture that made him giggle. “You are making me hungry, Patrick Carter, and I’m pretty sure we don’t have any sweets here that would come close to tasting as good as those cupcakes.”

I finished with Misty and guided her into her stall before starting on Georgia’s other side. “Okay, so what’s some stuff youdon’tlike? I’ll go first. I don’t like mean people, mayonnaise, and mosquitoes. Your turn.”

Patrick frowned and paused. “I don’t like mosquitoes either. I sometimes like mayonnaise.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “But I don’t like school.”

The immediate change in his tone—almost like he was scared—made me realize that I might be on to something. “Huh. Was eighth grade really tough on you?”

Patrick erupted into giggles. “I’m not in eighth grade! I’m going to be inkindergarten!”

“Ohhh,” I said, widening my eyes and nodding. “That’s right, of course. Kindergarten. But you haven’t started yet, so how do you already know you don’t like it?”

Patrick went back to brushing and shrugged.

“Kindergarten is really fun,” I said, hoping to coax more out of him. “You get to make new friends, play lots of games, and learn cool stuff. I love learning new things.”

He didn’t answer and his brush strokes slowed. I realized that I needed to proceed with caution if I wanted him to keep talking.

“You get to color,” I said. “Do you like drawing?”

“Yes.” Patrick nodded. “But how do you know if your drawing is the best out of all of them? Will the teacher tell you?”

I walked to where I could see Patrick better. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged again and refused to look at me, focusing instead on picking at the brush bristles.

“There’s no such thing as a ‘best’ drawing, monkey. All that matters is that you try your hardest, you have fun while you’re doing it, and you’re proud of what you made.”

“That’s not what Grandpa says.” Patrick ran the brush across the back of his hand.

Bingo.

“Is that so? What did he tell you?”

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