Page 23 of Grace Notes
“Cause he’s going to take my Papaw Kip away from me.”
“Ah, I see,” Dr. Phelps says. Understanding flickers through his eyes, and he stands without another word, walking over to his desk to retrieve something before coming back to sit again. He’s holding a picture frame with a picture of a young woman tucked inside. There are sepia tones throughout the coloring of the photograph, revealing its age. Stretching out his hand, he says, “That’s my wife.”
Avery looks at the picture, taking it in before she says, “She’s pretty.”
Dropping his eyes to the frame, Dr. Phelps takes in the picture with a sad smile. “She was beautiful, even in her older age, but she’s in heaven now.”
My daughter’s mouth drops open, rage filling her eyes. “Are you mad, too?”
My heart aches for the man as he nods. I can’t say I blame him. The thought of losing Emryn leaves a deep void inside my chest.
“I was angry for a very long time. Can you tell me what it feels like when you are mad?”
Avery shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes.
“That’s okay,” Dr. Phelps says, his voice soothing. “How about I tell you what it felt like when I was mad, and you can tell me if that’s what you’re feeling? Does that sound okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers. Her hands tremble, and I reach out, holding it in mine and letting her know I’m right here with her. She doesn’t have to face this alone.
“Sometimes, when I’m angry, it feels like a big ball is sitting on my chest. Right here,” he says, tapping a finger against his sternum. “Is that what you feel when you are angry?”
A small nod, barely perceptible unless you are watching, is all Avery offers.
“Oh, and sometimes when I’m angry, my face gets really hot, like I’ve been running around and swinging on the monkey bars.”
A giggle. One small giggle is what she offers this time, but it’s one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard.
“You play on the monkey bars?” Avery asks, disbelief coloring her tone.
“What? Do you think I’m too old for that?” Dr. Phelps pretends to be offended, and Avery nods, a smile playing on her lips. “I’ll have you know, I’m still the monkey bar champion.”
Another giggle and Avery says, “I think I could beat you, Dr. Phelps.”’
The older man scoffs in pretend outrage, and I watch them, excited to see that Avery’s talking to him. Then she does something unexpected. Slipping her hand from mine, she stands and walks over to where she is standing in front of Dr. Phelps. She places her hand on top of his and looks up at him. “My face feels hot, too.”
And, yeah, we still have a long way to go with Avery—this journey won’t be a short one—but even still, the fist around my chest loosens its grip as I watch Avery connect with someone who gets her.
A year ago, it would have bothered me that it wasn’t me—and maybe a tiny part of me still feels like a failure because of that—but a bigger part recognizes that what Emryn said is right. Being the best dad sometimes means finding help where I can’t give it.
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“Was today as hard as you thought?” Emryn’s voice floats over to me from where she’s standing in the doorway of our en-suite, brushing her hair. The strands hang around her shoulders, the color of our daughter’s, making me smile. Avery might as well be a mini version of Emryn, and I love it.
My eyes travel down from her hair to the shirt she’s wearing. It’s mine. She’s worn my shirt to bed the whole time we’ve been married, and I don’t think I will ever get over the sight. It does something to my chest every time I see it.
“Brooks,” Emryn chuckles, “I need you to focus.”
I snap my attention to her. “I can’t help it. You’re distracting when you’re in our bedroom wearing my t-shirt.”
Emryn rolls her eyes and saunters over to where I’m lying on the bed, swatting me with the brush when she is close enough, but I’m faster than her. Catching hold of her wrist, I pull her onto the bed. She lets out a squeal but comes willingly, falling onto my chest. I wrap my arms around her, and her hands link behind my neck, playing with my hair at the nape.
I press my lips to her forehead, and when I pull back, her eyes are closed. I can’t help the faint smile that slips onto my lips.
She keeps her eyes closed as I stroke my hand down her spine.
“I think—for all intents and purposes—that it went well. I won’t lie and say being there wasn’t hard for me. It made me feel helpless in a way that I never wanted to feel in my daughter’s life, but I also think that it helped me recognize that it doesn’t always have to be me that fixes the problem.”
A hum of acknowledgment comes from her chest, the sound vibrating against mine, but she doesn’t say anything for several minutes.
