21. Cliff
Chapter 21
Cliff
T he drive home from the ER feels longer than the drive there. Brittany is conked out in the passenger seat with a large bandage covering her knee and the few stitches beneath. Three, to be exact. A number I won’t forget anytime soon either.
“Three stitches,” Tracy repeated over the phone.
My heart was in my throat at that point. I wished I’d had time to cool down, but I wasn’t sure how long we’d be in the emergency room, and I’d already deposited the quarter, so a quarter’s worth of scolding would be my punishment until the pay phone inevitably cut us off.
“I’d like them to spend Thanksgiving with me this year,” she said.
I almost stumbled in place. “What? You already come over for Christmas.”
“I want them.”
“Trace,” I breathed, pinching my nose as I parsed through the logic. “You can’t be serious.”
“Clifford, I … I think I need to.”
I could tell she was nervous. Scared. Uncomfortable with everything, and I understood that, but it felt like the rug was getting ripped out from under me.
“I mean, you’re letting her play with random dogs by herself.”
“The dog didn’t do anything to her. It got scared.”
“And where was Emily in all this?”
“She was there,” I said. “There’s nothing anyone could have done.”
“You could have not let our daughter be friends with an animal .”
I rested my head against the cold phone box.
“Trace, please don’t take them for Thanksgiving.” I hated how it’d sounded like I was begging, but the words had slipped out. “It’s their favorite holiday. We always have a big dinner with neighborhood people.”
“But they can see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in person. Wouldn’t they love that?”
Of course Brittany would love seeing it. Even Emily might get a kick out of the spectacle. But that meant they’d be gone. I didn’t want them gone.
“Yes. But …” I’d never sounded so desperate in my life, but I couldn’t find a single argument that wasn’t selfish.
“I want to spend the holiday with them,” Tracy said. “You think I don’t think about my babies every day?”
I didn’t.
But she couldn’t hear that. So, I didn’t argue.
I said, “Yes, that makes sense,” and, “Yes, they’d love the parade,” and, “As long as they’re back the day after,” which was met with zero resistance.
I look over at Brittany with her head lolling against her seat belt and her lips parted with puppy-like, breathy snores.
How in the world am I supposed to tell the girls I won’t have them for Thanksgiving?
My truck rumbles past the lattice Copper Run sign, under the covered bridge, through the square, and down the couple of blocks to our house. The porch light of Bird it was fun. That’s all.
Two lonely, divorced friends, having fun.