Page 9 of Second Start: Family
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As Dan pounded up the stairs, Hall remembered his son saying this morning that Vicky had something particular to talk to him about.
Hall’s lips twisted. At least she wasn’t the teacher he’d wrangled with.
He dropped his forearm over his eyes.
The shadowy image of the new schoolteacher came into his mind. Kenzie Smith. She probably knew exactly what to do with kids, how to talk to them, how to teach them.
Just like Annie.
He jerked to a sitting position and checked the clock. He’d slept almost an hour.
Upstairs, the door to the girls’ room was halfway open. Despite the hall light spilling across their faces, both girls slept deeply.
Lizzie was on her side, curled tight with one fist tucked against her cheek. Molly slept on her back, the sheet under her small chin.
They looked so calm … serene. The highs and lows of their day smoothed away to peace.
They’d cried when their grandmother got on the airplane to return to Arizona two weeks after Annie’s funeral. But by the time everyone piled back in for the return haul to the ranch, they were dry-eyed. And before they reached home, they were singing.
God, they healed fast.
He hadn’t felt like crying when his mother boarded the plane, but he had felt a pressure against his chest. Maybe it was the continued weight of her words from the night before, when he’d asked her to stay longer.
I could stay on a bit, Hall, but I don’t think that’s best for you and the children. It’s time you all find your way together.
What if I can’t do it, Mom?He hadn’t said the words aloud. That hadn’t stopped her from answering.
You’ll do fine. You’ll learn — you’re already learning. It’s natural you’re worried how you’ll get on. This has been a shock for you all. And it’s going to be a big change. Especially considering how Annie … Well, that’s the past.
Hall pulled the bedroom door nearly closed, leaving it cracked — he’d learned that lesson the first night after his mother left, when Lizzie’s middle-of-the-night screams woke the whole house.
“She’s afraid of the dark,” Dan had said, full of disdain for his father’s ignorance.
“Not afraid of the dark, precisely,” Lizzie had corrected between gulping air and diminishing sobs. “Want to be able to see when I sleep.”
As he had every night since then, Hall adjusted the door so a thread of the dim hall light would be visible inside and any cries during the night would be heard outside.
He crossed the hall to where his sons slept.
The house had been built a century ago, and the narrow second story added maybe twenty-five years later. The original house was snug and solid, but upstairs broiled in the summer sun, while winter’s winds passed through like travelers in a hurry. These cool fall nights were the finest season for these small rooms.
He stepped in to pull the covers over Bobby, knowing he’d toss them off again.
Then he turned to where his first-born slept.
Why couldn’t it have been you?
What happened to the sturdy boy who’d looked so like Bobby did now? Who’d followed Hall around on chubby legs and held out his arms to be lifted for the view from his father’s shoulders. Now, even in sleep, Dan’s face reflected the anger and pain that had blazed from his eyes these past months … or had those emotions been there longer?
Why the hell couldn’t it have been you?
Hall turned toward the master bedroom, then stopped. The time he stood there could be measured only by a cascade of memories. The last one was Annie with the hospital white sheet pulled up.
Why couldn’t it have been you?
He turned sharply enough that his boot heel dug into the thinning carpet and went down the stairs for another night on the couch.
