Chapter 6 #2
"But it might be good for her. Having someone who understands what she's going through.
Someone who's been there." She pauses. "Lord knows I've seen enough addicts in my time.
Worked with them at the hospital, back when I was nursing.
Some of them never made it. But the ones who did—they always had someone in their corner.
Someone who believed in them when they couldn't believe in themselves. "
"That's what I'm trying to be."
"I know, baby. And you're doing a hell of a job." She reaches over and pats my knee. "You're a good man, Garrett. A good husband. That girl is lucky to have you."
I don't feel like a good man.
I feel like a man who's barely holding it together, who's terrified of losing the only person he's ever loved, who's about to become a father when he doesn't know the first thing about being one.
My own father died when I was nine.
Everything I know about parenting, I learned from watching other people—from Ellie, from Ruger's parents before they passed, from the brothers at the club who have kids of their own.
Is that enough?
Can you learn to be a father by watching other people do it?
I guess I'm about to find out.
"What if I'm not ready?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "To be a dad. What if I screw it up?"
Aunt Ellie laughs—a warm, genuine sound. "Honey, nobody's ever ready to be a parent. You just figure it out as you go. And from what I've seen, the people who worry about screwing it up are usually the ones who do just fine."
"That's not very reassuring."
"It's not meant to be reassuring. It's meant to be true." She settles back in her seat, closing her eyes. "Now let me rest. I'm too old for five AM road trips."
I smile despite myself and keep driving.
We pull into the facility's parking lot at 9:55.
Five minutes early.
The building looks different than it did five weeks ago, when I dropped Vanna off and watched her walk away.
Less intimidating.
More like a place where healing might actually happen.
"Ready?" Aunt Ellie asks.
"No," I admit. "But I'm going in anyway."
The visiting room is warm and bright, with big windows that let in the pale November light.
It's designed to feel comfortable, I realize.
To make families forget, even for a moment, that their loved ones are fighting for their lives.
I sign in at the front desk, my hands steadier than they were three days ago.
Aunt Ellie settles into a chair nearby, pretending to read a magazine, giving me space.
And then I see her.
She's standing in the doorway, a staff member beside her, and everything else fades away.
The room. The people.
The fear that's been eating at me for weeks.
All of it disappears, and there's only her.
She looks better.
That's the first thing I notice.
Her cheeks have filled out a little, and there's color in her face that wasn't there before.
The dark circles under her eyes are fading.
The haunted look—the look of someone who's always chasing something just out of reach—is gone, replaced by something clearer. Calmer.
She looks like my Vanna.
The real one.
The one I fell in love with twenty-two years ago.
"Bloodhound." Her voice cracks on my name, and then she's moving, crossing the room in quick steps, and I'm on my feet and meeting her halfway.
She crashes into me, and I catch her, wrapping my arms around her so tight I'm probably crushing her.
But I can't let go.
Can't do anything but hold her, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the solid reality of her body against mine.
"God, Van." My voice is muffled against her hair. "I missed you so much."
"I missed you too." She's crying—I can feel the tears soaking through my shirt—but she's also laughing, a sound of pure relief. "I can't believe you're here. I can't believe you're really here."
"I'm here." I pull back just enough to cup her face in my hands, wiping away the tears with my thumbs. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."
She smiles—a real smile, the kind I haven't seen in years—and it hits me like a punch to the chest.
There she is.
The girl who dared me to chase her across Mountaineer Field.
The woman who became my wife.
She's still in there, fighting her way back to the surface.
My eyes drop to her stomach.
There's nothing to see yet—it's too early for that—but knowing our baby is in there makes my heart ache in ways I can't describe.
"Can I...?" I don't know how to ask.
But she understands.
She always understands.
She takes my hand and presses it flat against her stomach, holding it there.
"Hi, baby," I whisper. "It's your dad."
Vanna laughs, a wet, broken sound. "You're ridiculous."
"Probably." I don't move my hand. "How are you feeling? Really?"
"Nauseous. Tired. Terrified." She pauses. "Hopeful. For the first time in a long time, I actually feel hopeful."
"Good. Hold onto that."
A throat clears behind us, and I remember we're not alone.
Aunt Ellie is standing a few feet away, her eyes suspiciously bright.
"You gonna hog her all day, or can an old woman get a hug?" she asks.
Vanna laughs and pulls away from me, moving to embrace Aunt Ellie.
The older woman wraps her in a fierce hug, murmuring something I can't hear.
Whatever it is, it makes Vanna cry harder.
"None of that now," Aunt Ellie says, pulling back. "You're doing good, girl. Real good. I'm proud of you."
We find a cluster of chairs by the window and settle in.
Vanna curls up against my side, her head on my shoulder, and I hold her like I'm never going to let go.
"There's something I need to tell you," I say after a while.
She tenses slightly. "What is it?"
"I went to see your father."
The silence that follows is heavy.
Vanna doesn't move, doesn't speak, barely seems to breathe.
I can feel her heart pounding against my chest where she's pressed against me.
I wait, giving her time to process.
"When?" she finally asks.
"Yesterday."
"Why?" There's no accusation in her voice. Just confusion. Maybe a little fear.
It's a fair question. I'm not sure I have a good answer.
"I needed to know if recovery was possible," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully. "Real recovery. The kind that lasts. And I figured... he's been where you are. He might understand things I don't."
"You could have asked Ounce."
"Ounce isn't your blood. Your father is." I pause. "And I guess... I wanted to see for myself. Whether people can change. Whether the man who hurt you so badly could become someone different."
She's quiet, processing this. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding on.
"And? What did he say?"
"He's been clean for nearly twelve years now. Says the structure helped him find strength he didn't know he had." I take a breath. "He cried when I told him you were pregnant. Said you're breaking the cycle."
Vanna makes a small sound—something between a laugh and a sob. "Breaking the cycle. That's what I've been afraid of. That I can't break it. That I'm doomed to repeat it."
"You're not doomed to anything, Van. You're choosing something different. Every single day you stay clean, you're choosing something different."
She's quiet for a long moment.
When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I haven't talked to him since he went in. Twelve years."
"I know."
"I blamed him for everything. For Mom. For the addiction.
For all of it. He's the one who brought drugs into our house.
He's the one who got Mom hooked. He's the one who—" Her voice breaks.
"I will never get that image of her dead body out of my mind, Garrett.
And I blamed him for every second of it. "
"That's fair. He blames himself too."
"Does he?" There's an edge to her voice now. "Does he really understand what he did? What he took from me?"
"I think so. I think he's spent twelve years in a cell thinking about nothing else." I pull back slightly so I can look at her. "He's not asking for absolution, Van. He knows he doesn't deserve it. He just wants you to know that he sees you. That he's proud of what you're doing."
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes searching my face. "Does he want to see me?"
"He wants to reconnect. When you're ready. If you're ever ready. He said he doesn't expect forgiveness—just wants you to know he's proud of you."
Tears spill down her cheeks. "I don't know if I can forgive him."
"You don't have to decide that now. You don't have to decide anything." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "I just wanted you to know that he's there. That he's changed. That maybe, someday, if you want to reach out..."
"Maybe I could write him a letter," she says slowly. "Start there. See how it feels."
"That sounds like a good idea."
"Will you help me? Figure out what to say?"
"Whatever you need."
She leans back into me, and I feel some of the tension drain out of her body. "Maybe," she says softly. "Someday."
It's not a yes. But it's not a no either.
The rest of the visit passes too quickly.
Vanna gives us a tour of the facility—the residential wing, the common room, the therapy spaces where she's been doing the hard work of putting herself back together.
She introduces us to Patricia, her counselor, who tells me Vanna is one of the strongest people she's ever worked with.
"She doesn't give up," Patricia says. "No matter how hard it gets."
We eat lunch in the cafeteria.
Aunt Ellie deems the meatloaf "acceptable" and the mashed potatoes "better than expected."
Vanna picks at her food—the nausea is still rough—but she manages half a roll and most of a cup of soup.
After lunch, we find a quiet corner and just sit together.
Vanna curled against my side, my arm around her shoulders, Aunt Ellie pretending to read nearby.
"I've been thinking about names," Vanna says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"If it's a boy, I want something that honors your parents. Your dad's name, maybe."
My throat tightens. "You'd want to do that?"
"They're part of you. Part of our family, even if they're not here anymore." She looks up at me. "I think they'd be happy. About the baby. About us trying to make things right."
I can't speak. Can only pull her closer and press a kiss to the top of her head.
"And if it's a girl," she continues, "I want something strong. Something that means she can survive anything."
"She'll be strong," I say. "With you as her mother, how could she not be?"
Vanna laughs softly. "I'm not strong, Blood. I'm barely holding on."
"That's what strong looks like, Van. Holding on when everything in you wants to let go."
She's quiet for a moment. "Thank you. For believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself."
"Always."
The announcement comes too soon.
"Visiting hours end in fifteen minutes. Please begin saying your goodbyes."
Fifteen minutes. It's not enough. It could never be enough.
Aunt Ellie stands, stretching. "I'll give you two a moment."
She disappears down the hallway, and then it's just me and Vanna, standing in the middle of the visiting room while other families say their goodbyes around us.
"Seven more weeks," I say. "That's how long until you come home."
"Seven weeks." She takes a shaky breath. "I can do seven weeks."
"You can do anything." I cup her face in my hands. "You've already proven that."
"Will you come back? Next weekend?"
"Every weekend. Every single one until you walk out those doors."
She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses me—soft and sweet and full of promise.
When she pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Take care of yourself," I say. "And take care of our baby."
"I will." She puts her hand on her stomach. "We'll be here. Waiting for you."
I kiss her one more time, trying to pour everything I feel into it.
Then I make myself step back.
Make myself walk toward the exit.
At the door, I turn for one last look.
She's standing where I left her, hand raised in a small wave, tears streaming down her face.
But she's smiling.
And there's something in that smile I haven't seen in years.
Peace. Hope.
The quiet certainty of a woman who's finally starting to believe she deserves to be happy.
Aunt Ellie is quiet as we walk to the truck.
She doesn't say anything as I climb behind the wheel, doesn't comment on the way my hands shake slightly as I fit the key into the ignition.
She just reaches over and squeezes my arm once before settling back into her seat.
We're twenty miles down the road before I can speak.
"She's going to make it," I say. "She's really going to make it."
"Of course she is." Aunt Ellie's voice is matter-of-fact, like she never doubted it for a second. "That girl's got more fight in her than anyone I've ever met. She just needed something worth fighting for."
The baby. Our family.
A future that doesn't end in another overdose, another hospital room, another desperate prayer that this time won't be the last.
That smile carries me through the four-hour drive home.
Through the quiet night and the empty bed.
Through the ache of missing her that settles back into my bones the moment I leave.
She's fighting.
She's getting better.
Our baby is growing inside her.
And somewhere in a prison cell two hours away, her father is hoping she'll give him a second chance.
It's not the life I imagined when I was nineteen and she was walking down the aisle toward me, beautiful and whole and untouched by the darkness that would consume us both.
But it's our life. The only one we've got.
Seven more weeks.
I can survive seven more weeks.
And when she walks out those doors, I'll be there waiting. Ready to start the rest of our lives.
One day at a time.