Page 9 of Shielding His Heart
The first girl frowns and narrows her brown eyes at me. “No, I’m Paisley,” and then points to her younger sister, “and this is Gemma.”
Gemma giggles. “Hi,” she whispers shyly.
I give them a small smile. “I know. I was just joking with you. Your dad showed me pictures. I’m really sorry for everything that’s happened.”
Gemma has a hold of Alec’s hand, and Paisley stands nearby. Paisley’s not as trusting and lighthearted as her sister. I wonder how I can tell that already. Maybe because she reminds me a lot of me. And then my heart cracks open when I realize she looks like me too.
Both girls have my blonde hair color, but that’s all the sisters have in common. Gemma looks like her father. The same square-shaped head, the same wide, full lips. Even their eyes, almond-shaped and a warm honey brown, match.
Paisley has my somewhat deep-set, hooded eyes that are an identical pale, almost gray, blue. The same thin mouth. And her facial structure is longer and leaner than her sister’s.
And while Gemma may look completely different, she has the same beauty mark on her right lower cheek that I do.
Like everything else, it’s strange to see myself reflected in their faces and not know them.
CHAPTER5
ALEC
Irest a hand on Paisley’s shoulder. She gazes at Tana with trepidation and a little resentment. On the other hand, Gemma is smiling her huge, gap-toothed smile. I knew when Tana was in the accident, it wasn’t necessarily Gemma I’d have to worry about. That girl is basically made of rubber. Everything bounces off her.
But Paisley. . . Paisley, I knew, would require more careful handling.
“You don’t remember anything?” Paisley asked with her characteristic bluntness.
Tana’s hand clutches the strap of her bag. Her eyes flit around her surroundings. “Not much about myself. Your dad told me to be honest, so I’m happy to answer any questions. I remember how to do things most of the time. Like brushing my teeth or doing algebra or things like that. But not most of the more important stuff. I don’t remember my family. I don’t remember me. I don’t even know what kind of movies I like or my favorite food.” She glosses over mentioning the girls. I don’t blame her. I couldn’t imagine not knowing them. If Tana is half of my heart, our girls are the other half.
I swallow hard. I’ve been so caught up by what I lost—everything—that it hadn’t occurred to me, not really, that she lost everything too. My hand tightens on Paisley’s shoulder. More out of reflex than reproach.
Paisley doesn’t seem to notice. She’s focused intensely on Tana. “Do you want a tour of the house?” Paisley offers. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Honestly, their meeting could’ve gone either way. It seems as though Paisley is willing to be on her best behavior. Which is more than I could’ve hoped for.
Gemma loves this idea. She bounces up and down, eyes bright, and goes to Tana’s side to take her free hand. “Yes! Let’s take a tour. Come on, come on, I’ll show you my room.”
I meet Tana’s eyes before Gemma can drag her from the room. I mouth, “Is that okay?”
Tana merely nods and allows Gemma to drag her up the stairs to where the girls’ rooms are. Paisley follows cautiously behind and gives me a small smile. It reassures me a little, but I know this may just be the calm before the storm.
While the girls show Tana their respective bedrooms and, I’m sure, regale her with as many memories as they can recall–Gemma in particular—I retrieve the rest of Tana’s things from the truck. I want to put them in our bedroom. I find myself moving in that direction, then abruptly stop. It’s the place I’ve missed her the most. I’ve woken up every morning since she’s been gone reaching for her. She always takes up too much of the bed. Steals the covers. And though she’d never admit it, she snores. But goddamn, I’d give anything to be cold, smothered, and kept awake because she sounds like a buzz saw. I truly didn’t know what I had until it was gone. My heart aches, and I spin around, forcing myself to think of anything else.
I bring her things to the spare room just off the kitchen in the back of the house. It used to be her craft room, where she would make the girls matching shirts for our Disney trips. She would wrap ribbon to make elaborate bows for their hair or customize birthday cards for her friends. Tana had a way of making the ordinary moments in our lives extraordinary. The little crafts she would do for the girls when they were small had become a lucrative business in the past few years. She sold her creations online to the point where the side hustle became a success. I couldn’t have been prouder.
But now, all her supplies are boxed up in big Rubbermaid storage bins. Her paper and glitter and ribbon and blank T-shirts. The machines that worked whatever magic they did. All that stuff is now stored in the attic waiting for her to use them again. Waiting for her to remember.
Like the rest of us.
My mom cleaned out the room and carefully boxed everything up. I didn’t say it to her, but I think she knew I couldn’t bear to pack away Tana’s things. She’d given us a spare bed from their house and dressed it with a matching floral quilt and shams. It was the color of sunshine and soft grass. The punches of green and yellow tied into the curtains and a small rug at the foot of the bed. It was homey and warm and inviting.
And I hated it.
I hated that she would be in this room so close to me and yet so far away.
I took my time unpacking her clothes, putting them in the dresser, and hanging them in the closet. The ritual was surprisingly soothing. She may not have my wife’s memories, but she still smelled like her. The same clean, feminine scent without perfume or other adornments. It reminded me that she was in there somewhere. The essence of the woman I loved was there.
That’s all that mattered.
Soon, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. With the clothes and other things unpacked, I went out into the kitchen and found them standing around the generous island.
This is where I feel Tana the most in our home, aside from our bedroom. She loved to cook. If cooking were a love language, I’m pretty sure it would be hers. Along with the crafts she would make for people for any given holiday, she would also bake or cook them something to go along with it. When her parents passed away and left her a small life insurance policy, she used it to renovate our kitchen into her dream kitchen.
