Page 11

Nightmares—when I did sleep—had me screaming, crawling across the floor toward the bathroom to puke. When I finished, I was wrapped up in my mother’s warm embrace or my father’s strong arms.
Even as I try to control the rapid increase of my heart from taking over, as I try to prevent the arms of overwhelming panic from dragging me down into an abyss only my family can pull me back from. I grab for the nearest pillow and clutch it to my chest, rocking back and forth, sobbing—praying to die. Praying for the pain to ease.
Praying for someone to help me when I know I don’t deserve it.
Chapter
Four
THREE MONTHS LATER
“Daaaaaady! Stop! It hurts!” Bailey screeches.
I immediately still the running of the brush through her hair.
I lift her up from her wheelchair and place her on the vanity so I can meet eyes that are the exact shade as mine—an almost translucent green. Not for the first time, something uncoils inside me when I realize there’s very little about Bailey that reminds me of her mother.
I recall the shock of finding out a long-ago affair resulted in Bailey. Because of who I worked for at the time, Ashleigh dramatized to the court I would never be around enough to be a good father—even though I was home every damn night as a forensic accountant. She turned on her undercover agent specialty—waterworks—and the judge ate it up, granting her seventy-five percent custody of our daughter. It wasn’t until after she died a few years ago that I became the sole custodian of Bailey, and my lawyer eviscerated the same judge over falling for Ashleigh’s tricks.
I heard he’s seeking retirement. I couldn’t care less.
But the agony of what happened in our past is pale in comparison to what happened when I took her to the ER for an ear infection a few months ago, and all hell broke loose.
In the grand scheme of things, I am grateful for the fact my little girl is whining over something as minor as a hairbrush being pulled too roughly through her dark curls instead of incessant pain from legs that were damaged from shrapnel that came flying off a pillar we were sitting near on the most terrifying night of our lives. A difference of millimeters on either leg and it would have been her arteries severed, Bailey’s surgeon grimly told me that night.
Bloodstains are more easily removed than memories. I thought I knew that before, but when it’s your child there’s no limit to what gives you nightmares. I still wake up covered in sweat recalling the way I instinctively pulled my baby girl out of the chair in the ER waiting room, covering her body with my own. Still ...
Shaking the memories aside, I zurburt Bailey’s cheek. “Does this hurt?”
She squeals, legs in casts kick out in delight, nailing me high in my inner thigh.
Despite the small “Umph” I can’t quite disguise, I don’t complain. I refuse to bring down Bailey’s joy just because she nutted me for the umpteenth time in the last three months. If it earns me her gorgeous smile, I’ll sign my name on the dotted line for life as a eunuch.
“How about I put on Dua Lipa to help you get through the agony?” I offer.
My princess beams as I whip out my iPhone from my pocket and play “Dance the Night.” Bailey shouts the lyrics at an incomprehensible decibel as I untangle her curls so I can injure my fingers with the devil made inventions called “forever ouchless” hair ties.
Forever ouchless, my ass. Those fuckers hurt when you snap them back on your forehead—especially the ones with the beads.
Fortunately, in my role of chief audit officer of Hudson Investigations, I only had to deal with the ribbing of the owners when I showed up at the office with a Wild Kratts Band-Aid at the company quarterly board meeting after Bailey assured me, “It matches your tie, Daddy.”
I wore that damn thing all day with as much pride as I once wore my Medal of Honor.
“Let me see how good you look, Buttercup.” I leave one hand on her waist and step back to get the full picture of my soon to be seven-year old. I step closer and fiddle with her right pigtail a bit before pronouncing her, “Perfect.”
Her lemon-yellow sun dress is cut in a way that shows small scars that make me murderous at a dead man. At a man the police took down with bullets at the hospital that very night. At myself for not recognizing Bailey tugging on her ear all week was a sign of an ear infection so I could take her to her normal pediatrician? At a dead woman whose neck I can’t have the satisfaction of wrapping my hands around because she did her best to drive a wedge between me and my little girl?
While these ideas hold merit late at night when I hear Bailey cry out in her sleep, I’ve learned it’s not healthy to entertain these thoughts around my daughter while she’s awake.
Case in point, Bailey’s face falls. I step closer before lifting her up then lowering her back into her wheelchair. “What is it, Buttercup?”
“All the kids at school are talking about going to the beach this summer, Daddy.” Her lower lip quivers.
Knowing immediately where her mind is headed, I remind her of the positive. “Well, we’ll see now that you’re in your shorter casts. At the very least you can be outside. I’m just not certain about how strong your legs are yet.”
“These dumb casts don’t let me have any fun.” Tears well up in her eyes, making them appear larger than before.
“Hopefully, it’s only a few more weeks, Bails.”