Chapter 12
Kieran
ICEHAWKS BITCHES
KIERAN
*video attachment*
IRVING
OH MY FUCKING GOD
LOOK AT HER LITTLE CLAPS
brOTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER
holy shit dude she said Daddy!
you have me wanting a kid now
that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen
JOHNSON
we have a new cheerleader
VALENTI
we need to get her a jersey
ELLINGTON
fuck a jersey
she needs everything
IRVING
earmuffs
O’CONNOR
little mittens!
do they make small enough mittens?
LEWIS
BEANIE!!!
I’ll learn to sew
can we meet her???
IRVING
please please please!!!
Sitting in the recliner chair in Emmy’s room, I’m watching the video on repeat, a constant loop that would probably have those around me questioning my sanity.
I can’t help myself.
It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice.
Layla got to hear it, but I never did, not until she gave me this video and my god every time I watch it I don’t think my heart could melt anymore and yet it does.
It’s soft, high-pitched, and so adorable. She doesn’t seem to have a stutter at all, not like how the psychologist assumed she would. I spoke with her on the phone at length yesterday morning in preparation for her appointment Monday.
The speech therapist wanted me to know going in that her mutism could be for a plethora of reasons, some even medical, but after seeing this, I fear that her silence is a choice, one she fell into from trauma.
Another tear drops onto my phone screen.
I gave up wiping them off my cheeks since they won’t stop flowing.
I had accepted her heart and soul the moment the matron showed me the DNA results, and while Emmy has been comfortable around me, she hasn’t quite accepted me back.
I know she’s gone through hell, has seen terrible things no child ever should, but hearing her so excitedly say I’m her dad made something click in my heart. We’re each other’s family.
I’m not sure how to go about it though. Do I wake her up and put the helmet on? Have the helmet on already? How do I merge the version of me she recognizes on TV with the man she was given to after her mom died?
Be yourself. Have fun with her.
Layla’s words come to mind and maybe, for now, I should hold off on showing her. I should build a relationship with her first.
A relationship built on a strong foundation of trust, stability, care, and love, not whatever her mom told her about the man on the TV.
A part of me also selfishly wants to know that if she likes me, it’s for me. I need to know I’m making Emmy happy because I’m giving her a joyful home, not an idolized version of myself.
Because I still can’t recall her mother. But that doesn’t surprise me.
Four years ago, around the time Emmy would have been conceived, I was a mess. Not that anyone ever noticed. I’ve always been able to function when it feels like I want to die.
My only tell? I find myself between the legs of women…a lot. I’m sure a psychologist would say it’s how I could safely find comfort from a woman without being vulnerable or getting hurt, but the why doesn’t matter. I was fucked in the head at that time…because I saw him at one of my games.
Ice runs down my spine at the memory of seeing his face in the crowd behind the home bench. I vomited nonstop that night, and it took months of throwing myself at women and drowning every night in alcohol for the feelings to fade.
So no, I don’t remember Emmy’s mom. If I was with a woman at that time, I was closing my eyes and forcing myself to forget.
Maybe I should hire someone to figure out who she was.
Suddenly, I feel eyes on me.
I lift my head from my phone and lock it, silencing Emmy’s voice. She’s peering up at me from her bed. I still haven’t been able to sleep in my own room. She’s found me here every morning, but so far, she hasn’t given any indication that she doesn’t like it.
I tried to leave and let her sleep alone last night but at the reminder of her very first night in this house, when I turned the light off only for her scream to pierce my heart and her room.
When the image of her terror filled face as I turned the light back on floods my mind every time I go to leave…
I find it impossible to make my feet walk away, even if my bedroom is just one door down.
Emmy’s fear of the dark is apparent and I’ve made sure to never have her in a room without light since.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She shakes her head, her hair sticking up in every direction as she clings to the golden retriever teddy. I’m going to have to kidnap Bambi at this point.
“Do you want a bath?”
No again.
Frowning, I wrack my brain for options before Allie and Carlton come over. This is the first day I’ve had her to myself with no plans and no long to-do list.
Our first Saturday together, and I feel like a fish out of water.
What the hell do I do with a three-year-old?
What do other parents do with their kids on the weekends?
Parks?
I can’t help but grimace at the thought of going there with Emmy. What if someone saw me with her and leaked it to the press?
Bunnies would come out of the woodwork then. My body is wracked with a shiver. Fuck that.
My mind drifts to the delivery that arrived yesterday, the stacks of boxes sitting in my backyard waiting for me to open them.
The corner of my mouth lifts into a smile. “Want to help me build something?”
Her eyes widen and I finally get a nod. She scrambles out of bed, her hair appearing as if she was doing gymnastics in her sleep, she runs across the room, still clutching the teddy’s paw.
I scoop her up into my arms. “Let’s get ready to build then.” Tapping her nose, I tease, “You can be my apprentice.”
Awater bottle held by two small hands shoots out in front of my face. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I take the bottle. “Thanks, Emmy.”
She nods, waiting patiently while I guzzle before taking the water back and running off to what I deemed “Emmy’s work area” in the yard as I assemble the playground.
There were far too many pointy nails for my liking.
Meanwhile, Emmy has decided her job is to make sure I’m hydrated while she plays with her golden retriever plushie she only allows me to call Bambi and the Barbies she smuggled out here.
The longer time goes on, the more her personality shows, and empathy seems to be a large one. I’m a little concerned there’s a bit of people pleasing, too. She watches me like a hawk, trying to guess my needs, and that shouldn’t be the case. I should be the one focusing on her.
I see far too much of myself in Emmy, stuff that goes beyond genetics. It’s psychological. I was a people pleaser in the foster home, and it was a trait I had to hammer out of myself in college.
Just because you take care of others and anticipate their needs and wants doesn’t make them love you.
When I was younger, I tried to be perfect.
Tried to pay attention in class, tried to be the kindest, tried to be friendly to everyone.
Grades, friends, sports—fuck, even brushing my teeth.
I received one compliment on how white my teeth were and from that day forward proceeded to brush my teeth for over ten minutes, four times a day.
I was six.
Pearly white teeth never got me adopted.
My good behavior never did, either. I thought if I behaved perfectly people would like me.
Parents would want me yet they always returned me like the dog I felt like that day my mom dropped me on the side of the road.
It always came full circle, me being dumped off at the foster home.
I could never escape that hellhole and the matron made sure I knew it.
When I went to college on a sports scholarship, I had the daunting realization that I never did anything for myself.
Everything I did was to make others happy, and I never stopped to ask myself what I needed to be happy.
After that moment, I swung myself around.
People might call me an asshole from time to time, but at least I’m not burying my feelings to prioritize others above mine.
I’ve also come to realize that the people who call you a selfish asshole are the ones who are pissed off that you aren’t bending your own happiness to prioritize theirs.
I’ve learned to stay far away from those types of people because my feelings matter just as much as theirs. There’s nothing wrong or inherently “bad” about taking care of myself first, because you can never pour from an empty cup.
There is kindness in showing up for someone when you are whole. They’re not receiving scraps of your attention or pieces of your energy; they’re seeing you at your full capacity.
It’s a lesson I’ll drill into Emmy’s mind.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, giving me pause. Placing the hammer between my feet, I pull it out to find it’s a notification from my security system.
My lips twitch.
Allie waited until nine on the dot.
Laughing to myself, I buzz them in from my phone before making my way over to Emmy, my steps slow. Her lips are moving ever so softly, talking for her Barbies.
I hold my breath, trying to calm the erratic beat as I attempt to hear her over the pounding of it in my ears, but I can’t. I don’t think she’s even making a sound, she’s just mouthing the words.
I’d sell a kidney to hear her play loud and carefree with her dolls.
I don’t have long until Allie comes waltzing through those doors, though, so I shake myself out of it.
“Hey Em, want to take a break? I have someone here that’s really excited to meet you.”
Her dolls slowly lower to the ground as she cocks her head.
“You’ll love them, I promise.”
Clambering to her feet, Emmy rises, leaving all her toys behind except for one. The golden retriever is clutched firmly in her hand. I scoop her into my arms, making my way up the deck stairs just as I hear my front door open and Allie call out.
“Hellooo,” she sings. “Where is my beautiful grandbaby?”