Page 47 of Doctorshipped
“Fee?” I stand outside her door and knock.
She doesn’t answer.
“Hey, Fee, sweetheart. I take it you didn’t have a great day.”
“Genius.”
I wait. “May I come in?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I can’t help you from out here.”
“You can’t help me anyway,” she says. Her voice sounds defeated, and then I hear a sniffle.
It’s times like these that I long for a mother in the house. I’m a good dad, and I do my best to fill the gaps, but sometimes a girl simply needs her mom—or a mom. Margot never really was the overly-maternal type, but she still possessed certain qualities I lack.
“I’d like to try, maybe not to help you, but at least to give you a hug.”
It’s quiet. I wait outside the door.
“No talking, Daddy. You can hug me but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough.”
“Promise?”
“You have my word. No talking. Just a hug.”
I gently push the door open and take in the sight of my daughter splayed across her bed, face half-buried in her pillow, eyes red, and a sad expression on her usually cheerful face.
I walk over to her, restraining myself from saying anything, and carefully sit on the edge of the bed. After a few moments, she sits up and reaches for me. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and she immediately collapses into me, letting her sobs loose and soaking a portion of my shirt with her tears.
Why the image of Jayme drooling on me comes to mind is beyond me. I remember the feel of her when she adjusted herself in her sleep to nestle in toward my arm. And I let her curl into me the whole flight—for Fiona’s sake.
“Daddy, I know I’m not stupid!” Fiona says between cries. “But I couldn’t do the read-aloud. And this one boy, Noah, teased me at lunch for not being able to read the way everyone else can.”
I smooth my hand down Fiona’s hair in calming strokes while talking myself out of finding out this boy’s last name and address so I can drive to his home to read him the riot act. In my right mind I know I shouldn’t take on an eleven-year-old boy, but when it comes to my daughter’s broken heart, I’m not in my right mind.
“I told our teacher, Miss Carmandy, and she talked to Noah and made him apologize, and she said she’s sending a note home to his parents.”
Fiona sniffles and takes a shuddering breath.
“Good for you,” I say.
We’ve worked on this—Fiona speaking up and telling teachers when she’s struggling with an assignment, or letting someone know when another student teases her.
Yes. It’s happened before.
“You promised not to talk in my room,” Fiona reminds me.
“Right. Right. Okay. No words from me. But you might like to know that Miss Jayme’s here. She was going to help you with your homework if you wanted. I can send her home if you’re not in the mood to tackle more schoolwork right now.”
“No!” Fiona pushes off my chest and sits up abruptly. “I want to see Miss Jayme!”
I think of how Jayme and I collided downstairs. The spot my daughter just touched echoes with the feel of Jayme’s hands on me in the same place, her eyes wide with shock and a look I can’t define.
Fiona jumps up and fans her eyes with her flattened hands. A smile takes over her face.
