Page 36 of Hold Us Close
Landen’s hands clench on the steering wheel as he pulls out of our parking space. I reach over and place my hand on his knee.
“They were, sweetie. They had some errands to run but said they’d be at the tournament next week for sure.”
“Can they come have ice cream with us? Grandpa likes sprinkles, too!”
Rubbing what I hope are soothing circles on my husband’s knee, I twist in my seat and crane my neck towards Hope. “Tell you what, how about they join us for dinner next week after the game? We can have ice cream for dessert.”
Landen’s muscles tighten under my hand. His parents reconciled after Hope was born. When The Colonel announced he was retiring to California so they could be near their granddaughter, no one was more surprised than us. Landen’s relationship with his father is still strained. They’re like warring countries that have declared a temporary truce. But I’ve seen the power my daughter has over The Colonel. Over everyone, really. But she owns him more so than anyone else, heart and soul.
Not that it erases Landen’s memory of what his childhood was like. I don’t expect it to. After his injury last year, I feared he’d destroy our family with his darkness once and for all.
Glancing at the smiling man next to me as my daughter agrees and chatters on about how she wants pink striped socks to cover her shin guards like so-and-so has, it’s almost hard to picture the man he was a year ago.
In last year’s playoffs, the opposing team’s striker missed the ball and nailed Landen with a kick hard enough to tear three separate ligaments in his knee. We prayed it was just a sprain, something temporary. But when the final results came in, he knew. We both did. His career was over.
For weeks, he marinated in his own anger, sitting alone in silence, barely responding to Hope or to me as he struggled to recover from his injury. Thick clouds of disappointment shrouded him in a place I thought I’d never be able to reach him.
And I wasn’t. It was Hope. Day after day, she’d climb into his lap, lay her head on his chest, and just sit quietly with him. This alone was a feat in and of itself, as Hope rarely sits quietly. Even when the physical therapist came to force him through his exercise routine, she stayed glued to his side.
Watching my beautiful full-of-light daughter even go near Landen when he was in such an awful place was difficult. He didn’t yell or hit things or break anything, but I could feel the force of his pain and frustration radiating from him. My instincts said to grab our daughter and keep her as far from him as I could until after he’d self-destructed. I even considered taking her back to Georgia and staying with my aunt for a while.
I was standing in the kitchen making dinner and contemplating this when she began to pull him back to us.
“Why are you sad, daddy?” I barely heard her small voice from the next room. I stepped into the doorway to see his response.
Landen blinked a few times, as if he hadn’t even realized she was there. He forced a smile and stared into her face. Again, I wanted to snatch her up so his pain couldn’t spill out onto her. But I waited.
“I’m not sad, sweet girl. Just trying to figure some stuff out is all.” He kissed her on the head and went to remove her from his lap.
But she wasn’t done. Thank God for the tenacity of four-year-olds. “Do you still love me?” she asked, her voice quivering enough to shatter my heart.
He recoiled like she’d slapped him across the face. “Of course I do, baby. So much.” He gave her a small squeeze and she frowned at him.
“Do you still love Mommy?”
I held my breath. I knew he still loved me. We’d been through worse than this. But I also knew his anger was a very dangerous part of him that could overshadow the loving man I knew if he let it.
“More than life itself, angel. I love you and Mommy more than anything. Always.”
“More than soccer?” Hope shot back at him.
Landen nodded. “More than soccer, more than air, more than chocolate ice cream cones with extra sprinkles.” She scrunched her face in disbelief and Landen rubbed his nose alongside hers.
Hope sighed in the dramatic way she has, placed a hand on her hip, and pinned him with her most serious expression. “Then what do you still have to figure out?”
Sometimes it really is that simple.
Later, we talked a lot about that day. About that entire year. About how Hope would ask him frequently if his boo-boo hurt and how he realized that she wanted him to get better because his behavior was hurting her.
This year he began coaching the men’s soccer team at the state university just outside of our home in Sacramento. And of course he coaches Hope’s pink-shin-guard, sock-wearing team on the weekends. He coaches both teams with equal enthusiasm—one of the many things I love about him. He never does anything halfway.
He’s even remained passionately committed to controlling his anger disorder. He takes his medication religiously and still attends therapy twice a week. The guys he coaches would probably love to see him doing yoga with me in our living room every morning.
If you glanced at us right now, you’d probably be envious. We look like the perfect all-American family. I’m hugely pregnant, Hope’s healthy and bright and beautiful, and my husband is handsome and successful. But if you look close, you might see our scars. We don’t hide them. Like the broken seashells I once loved to collect, what marks us is what makes us who we are.
We wear our scars proudly, the one’s we got on our way here. But we are here now. Walking into an ice cream shop as a family. Smiling, teasing, laughing. This is our happily ever after, where we keep each other still in smaller ways that don’t involve seizures or angry rages—ways that need only a kiss, a hand on the knee, a hug. And this is where we will stay. Together. Loving each other with everything we have. Forever.