Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Renthrow
Episodes.
That’s what the fancy child psychologist calls them. Those awful moments when Gordie slips away and turns into someone I don’t recognize.
“During those times of withdrawal, it’s best to let her be, Mr. Renthrow.”
“For how long?”
“Until she’s ready.”
“And when will she be ready?”
“When she lets someone in.”
“I need more than that.”
“I’m afraid we can’t force progress.”
“My baby girl is hurting. She’s hurting. And…what? I’m just supposed to watch?”
“You’re supposed to wait.”
I hate waiting. It’s why I’m a forward. When I’m on the ice, my eyes are on the opposing team’s net, and I put everything on the line. Doesn’t matter who comes at me. Doesn’t matter how hard it seems. I push through despite the odds.
Holding back goes against the very core of who I am, as a man and as a father.
“Viking.” Mom’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “Viking?”
“Huh?” I startle and catch my reflection in the glass of the upper cupboards. There are bags under my eyes and stubble around my mouth. I haven’t shaved in days, and it shows.
Mom gives me a strange look. “You’re burning the bacon.”
The aroma of burning meat fills my senses.
“Oh.” I swipe the stove knob so the flame dies. “I guess we’re having burgers with extra crispy bacon today.”
Mom tsks. “What were you thinking so deeply about?”
I glance at Gordie who is playing with her tablet.
Mom’s gaze follows me there, and her eyes tremble with sadness.
Afraid she’s going to cry again, I blurt, “Max is announcing the changes to the team tomorrow. Theilan and Watson can tell something’s up, and they asked me if I knew anything.”
“You can’t tell them until Max does.”
“It might be better to know upfront. They’re a part of the team. They deserve that much.”
“And when they’re both hurt and angry, who do you think they’ll turn that energy on? Let Max explain. He’s the only one who can do it.”
I nod. “You’re right. I’ll keep dodging the question. It’ll all be out in the open tomorrow anyway.” I plate the bacon and nudge it toward Gordie. “What do you think, pumpkin? Should we throw this out and have dinner early instead?”
“I want burgers.” Gordie pouts.
“But the bacon’s toast.”
Mom winks. “My sweet granddaughter doesn’t mind, does she?”
Gordie shakes her head and pops one of the burnt strips into her mouth. After one chomp, her eyes bulge. She sticks out her tongue and whines, “That’s really bad.”
Mom laughs as she drops a kiss on my daughter’s head.
I notice her moving to the door and ask, “Are you leaving?”
“I think I forgot something in my car.”
My eyes narrow on the keys in her hand. “Those are my car keys.”
“Oh, well”—she throws a little wave over her shoulder—“I’ll look in your car first, just in case it’s there.”
“What exactly is it?”
“Toodles!”
I tilt my head, side-eyeing Mom’s retreat. What was that about?
Eyes still on the front door, I murmur, “Lunch will be a bit late, pumpkin, okay? Do you want me to cut up an apple for you to snack on while you wait?”
Gordie shrugs.
I walk to the fridge and grab the apple as I mentally page through my dinner recipes. I’m thinking of making baked potatoes, grilled chicken, and salad.
Thankfully, I thawed the chicken before I went to work this morning. The potatoes just need to be thrown in the oven. A salad… What kind of salad should I make? Do I have enough tomatoes for an Italian salad? Or should I make something with quinoa?
When I turn back to the counter, Gordie’s seat is vacant.
That empty space fills my heart with dread.
Maybe she just went to the bathroom. Maybe she’s playing hide and seek.
“Gordie?”
Silence.
The apple drops out of my hand and clatters to the floor as a now familiar panic overtakes me.
“Gordie?” I call again.
There’s no response.
I round the counter, searching the kitchen. “Pumpkin, where…” The words shrivel in my throat when I find my daughter hunched under the table.
No, no, no.
She was fine. Was she not fine? Should I have seen something? A sign? Did I trigger it? Was it Mom leaving the house?
“Honey”—I swallow hard—“Grandma only went to the car. She’s coming back.”
Gordie doesn’t answer. She just stares unseeingly at her feet.
I reach out to her, hoping beyond hope that she’ll let me comfort her. But as usual, Gordie shivers, wraps her hands around her knees, and pulls them up to her chest protectively.
What is she protecting herself from? From me?
“This isn’t personal,” the psychologist said. “What she needs is time and space to process.”
My fingers curl into fists.
I bite down on my bottom lip as my nostrils flare.
My sneakers feel like lead as I take a step backward.
Distance.
Space.
Enough space to rip my heart out of my chest.
Gordie doesn’t notice. She tucks her chin against her chest and stays huddled under the table.
It hurts so much to see her that way.
Helplessness burns through my chest. Turning, I stomp outside and see Mom bounding up the porch steps, a smile on her face. That smile withers away when she sees my expression.
“Is she…” Mom points inside.
I look away.
Mom barrels into the house. I hear her voice trembling a moment later. “Oh no. Oh, sweetheart.”
The pain swells and pulses.
I blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay.
The sky is too blue. The street too quiet. There’s a storm lashing and thrashing in my chest, and it makes no sense that the rest of the world looks so normal.
Walking to the edge of the porch, I add a new note to my phone with the date and time. The episodes don’t have a warning or any sort of pattern, so I’m creating a spreadsheet, along with a detailed explanation of what we were talking about and who we were with when it happened.
I haven’t asked the psychologist’s opinion on my task. She’ll tell me I’m wasting my time and that there’s no way to predict the withdrawals. But I don’t care. I have to do something.
Just then, I hear the roar of a powerful engine. A Harley speeds into view and parks in front of my lawn. The woman sitting atop the menacing machine alights daintily and pulls her helmet off.
Cordelia.
I keep my eyes trained on her and my phone in the air, frozen.
“What are you doing here?” I growl when she gets closer to the porch.
“Where’s your mom?” she snaps back, without so much as a hello.
“I asked you first.”
She stomps up the porch. “My business is not with you, so just pretend I’m not here.”
I take a step toward her. “Kind of hard to ignore the giant bike right in front of my driveway.”
“Relax. I’m not going to drive over your tulips.” Her eyes trail over me and widen. “Wow…you look awful.”
“And you look…” I can’t say what I’m thinking.
Because it wouldn’t be an insult.
She looks good. Really good.
Her top is cropped, exposing a sliver of her stomach between the hem of her shirt and her jeans, which are—of course—tight enough to squeeze the remnants of toothpaste out of the tube.
Her hair is windswept and her cheeks flushed, like she kept her helmet visor open and let the sun kiss her while she rode.
“You look…” I repeat, my throat dry.
Her big, Bambi eyes lock on me and refuse to let go. How am I supposed to think under these circumstances?
“Why are you here again?” I blurt, agitated. The crippling guilt I feel about my daughter should have kept me from noticing anything about this woman.
And yet my pulse is racing.
I need her off my property.
The door slams open, and Mom appears. “Cordelia, hi.” Her grin is strained, and she tosses me a helpless look. “You’re here.”
“Yes. Can I have the keys so I can look at the car?”
“The car?” My eyes shoot to Mom.
Her eyes swerve away in avoidance.
“What’s wrong with your car?” I press.
“It’s not my car. It’s your car.”
That’s news to me. “What’s wrong with my car?”
Mom forces a laugh and beckons the female mechanic inside. “Come in for a moment while I look for the keys.”
Cordelia follows her into the house, and I remain on the porch, feeling bamboozled. There was nothing wrong with my car, which leaves only one explanation. Mom is setting me up with Cordelia. Again.
Why is she worried about my love life when Gordie’s not well?
“Oh no. Gordie.” Mom let Cordelia into the house. What if Gordie gets upset and embarrassed having an audience during her episode? Having a stranger there may make things worse.
Protective instincts blaring, I barge inside, ready to do damage control.
But muffled conversation and a soft giggle punches me in the gut, and the harsh words stick right there in my throat.
My eyes zoom to my daughter who’s still under the table. Still hiding from the world.
But she’s no longer shivering or wrapping her arms around herself.
And most importantly, she’s no longer alone.