baby girl looked back and forth between the two of us from that counter top. Eyes wide-open, she looked wise somehow.
“Well, now what?” I had asked Tammy that day …
“Daddy!” Tory screeches from inside the van.
My eyes had been following them since they crossed the tracks, but my mind was disconnected from the moment and didn’t receive the message. Memory-blindness.
“Daddy!” she yells again, running toward me now.
I step down off the porch and bend down to wrap my arms around my little girl. She throws her arms around me and I lift her up for a kiss. She keeps her legs running in mid- air and kicks me below the belt three times. I yelp and fall to my knees in the middle of the yard. Still holding Tory against me, I fall backward and then release her to lie on the ground next to me.
“I missed you SO much, Daddy!”
“I missed you, too, Sweetie,” I say in a fake falsetto that makes Tammy and I both laugh.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. When I open them again, Tammy’s upside down face is staring down at me and smiling.
“Well, now what?” she asks.
With Grandpa and Grandma more than happy to play babysitter to their great-granddaughter, Tammy and I are able to spend a lot of time together over the next few days. We go out to dinner, to the movies, to coffee shops. We talk. We are beginning to find each other again. Learning each other all over again—some of it old and familiar, some of it new and different.
I find those Betty Cooper-like upturns at the corners of her mouth and those gorgeous gray-green eyes that somehow always seem full of hope. Her sweetness and optimism, which I had feared might die.
Over dinner one night, I told her about the letters I had written to Beatrice Hart and Phyllis Ross and she encouraged me to write more.
“I don’t know, Tam. It seems kind of weird, doesn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she assures me. “Besides, if it makes you feel better, that’s all that matters, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“It helps them and it helps you. I think it’s wonderful.”
“Maybe,” I say. “We’ll see.”
I reposition my fork and knife next to my empty dinner plate several times and then drink the rest of my margarita. Her eyes hang on me as I do. Usually I am pretty good with silence, but if there is something being unspoken in that quiet space, I sometimes have trouble holding my tongue.
“You probably think I’m drinking too much.”
I caress the empty glass, stare down into it.
“It makes me feel better. And like you said, that’s all that matters, right?”
“Don’t do that, Tucker,” she warns. “It’s not the same thing and you know it.”
“Well, it sort of is the same thing.”
“It’s not healthy. It’s destructive.”
“I’m not an alcoholic, Tam. I promise. And I’m pretty sure I don’t have what it takes to become one.”
“You’ve got alcoholics on both sides of your family. I’m pretty sure you
do
have what it takes. It’s in your blood.”
“Fine, the genes may be in me, but I’m telling you they’re recessive.
I redirect the conversation.
“What about you?” I ask. “What have you been doing to feel better?”
Relenting, she leans back in her chair and lets out a deep sigh.
“Actually, I’ve been going to this support group for parents who have lost children. I met a woman from Werton who lost her daughter to SIDS. We’ve had lunch a few times, talked on the phone.”
“Good, that’s good. I’m happy you’ve found someone who can help.”
“Oh, and I ordered these,” she says, reaching inside her purse.
She pulls out what looks like a business card and hands it to me. Printed on the front of the card, it says,
This random act of kindness is done in loving memory of our child _____
.
After the word ‘child’, Tammy has written Ethan Merrill.
“Wow, this is great.”
“Isn’t it? I ordered them from this website the support group recommended.”
“So then
“Well, now what?” I had asked Tammy that day …
“Daddy!” Tory screeches from inside the van.
My eyes had been following them since they crossed the tracks, but my mind was disconnected from the moment and didn’t receive the message. Memory-blindness.
“Daddy!” she yells again, running toward me now.
I step down off the porch and bend down to wrap my arms around my little girl. She throws her arms around me and I lift her up for a kiss. She keeps her legs running in mid- air and kicks me below the belt three times. I yelp and fall to my knees in the middle of the yard. Still holding Tory against me, I fall backward and then release her to lie on the ground next to me.
“I missed you SO much, Daddy!”
“I missed you, too, Sweetie,” I say in a fake falsetto that makes Tammy and I both laugh.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. When I open them again, Tammy’s upside down face is staring down at me and smiling.
“Well, now what?” she asks.
With Grandpa and Grandma more than happy to play babysitter to their great-granddaughter, Tammy and I are able to spend a lot of time together over the next few days. We go out to dinner, to the movies, to coffee shops. We talk. We are beginning to find each other again. Learning each other all over again—some of it old and familiar, some of it new and different.
I find those Betty Cooper-like upturns at the corners of her mouth and those gorgeous gray-green eyes that somehow always seem full of hope. Her sweetness and optimism, which I had feared might die.
Over dinner one night, I told her about the letters I had written to Beatrice Hart and Phyllis Ross and she encouraged me to write more.
“I don’t know, Tam. It seems kind of weird, doesn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she assures me. “Besides, if it makes you feel better, that’s all that matters, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“It helps them and it helps you. I think it’s wonderful.”
“Maybe,” I say. “We’ll see.”
I reposition my fork and knife next to my empty dinner plate several times and then drink the rest of my margarita. Her eyes hang on me as I do. Usually I am pretty good with silence, but if there is something being unspoken in that quiet space, I sometimes have trouble holding my tongue.
“You probably think I’m drinking too much.”
I caress the empty glass, stare down into it.
“It makes me feel better. And like you said, that’s all that matters, right?”
“Don’t do that, Tucker,” she warns. “It’s not the same thing and you know it.”
“Well, it sort of is the same thing.”
“It’s not healthy. It’s destructive.”
“I’m not an alcoholic, Tam. I promise. And I’m pretty sure I don’t have what it takes to become one.”
“You’ve got alcoholics on both sides of your family. I’m pretty sure you
do
have what it takes. It’s in your blood.”
“Fine, the genes may be in me, but I’m telling you they’re recessive.
I redirect the conversation.
“What about you?” I ask. “What have you been doing to feel better?”
Relenting, she leans back in her chair and lets out a deep sigh.
“Actually, I’ve been going to this support group for parents who have lost children. I met a woman from Werton who lost her daughter to SIDS. We’ve had lunch a few times, talked on the phone.”
“Good, that’s good. I’m happy you’ve found someone who can help.”
“Oh, and I ordered these,” she says, reaching inside her purse.
She pulls out what looks like a business card and hands it to me. Printed on the front of the card, it says,
This random act of kindness is done in loving memory of our child _____
.
After the word ‘child’, Tammy has written Ethan Merrill.
“Wow, this is great.”
“Isn’t it? I ordered them from this website the support group recommended.”
“So then
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