23. Atonement
Chapter twenty-three
Atonement
Ellie’s sitting at the kitchen table acting as if orange juice and toast is more interesting than me.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again,” she says, rolling her eyes with her left leg propped up on the extra chair, crutches leaning within reach.
“I’m just standing here, buttering toast.”
“You’re standing there looking at me with the doctor face.”
“I don’t have a doctor face.”
“You do, and you actually have a couple of them.”
“What?”
“You have the face you wear at the hospital, which is super serious. Your clinic face is kind, but also serious. You have the one when people ask you for advice in the grocery store or out in town which is polite. You have the one where friends talk about stuff that’s wrong and you start offering advice without them asking. ”
I stand there staring at her half in disbelief, half in awe that she’s so observant.
“And you have this one, the overprotective dad-the-doctor face, which is annoying, and if I’m being honest, a little creepy.”
“Creepy? I’m your dad.”
“Most people’s dads don’t watch them while they're sleeping, eating every bite, or walking across a room.”
“Most dads didn’t have to rescue their injured kid from a cave in the middle of the night in a storm either.”
She groans. “Dad.”
I ignore the butter knife and toast and pick up her medication schedule instead.
“Well, as long as you brought up the subject, you’re due for ibuprofen after you eat.”
“I know Dad. I’m watching my schedule and not missing meds.”
“And you’re paying attention, making sure you’re watching for headache changes, nausea, dizziness, vision problems, confusion, increased sleepiness.”
She points at me with the corner of her toast. “See?” She smirks. “Dad the doctor. Definitely.”
Well, okay, maybe.
“And you’re using the crutches, with someone near you.”
“Near-ish,” she insists.
“Define near-ish.”
“Within hearing distance.” Her eyes narrow. “Dad, my knee is wrapped and braced. ”
“Eleanor.”
“William.”
I point at her.
She points back. She’s sitting there with her hair twisted up into a messy bun, making a gesture that is so Beth it takes my breath for a second. Ellie sees it before I can hide it.
Her expression changes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Dad.”
I set the paper down. “You just looked like your mother for a second.”
Ellie looks at the toast in her hand. “Oh.”
“Not sad,” I tell her. “Just true.”
She nods once and takes a bite.
I want to be able to sit down and just talk, but all I can see is the bruise blooming around the three stitches at her hairline and the scrape on her cheekbone.
Instead, I pour orange juice.
“Your forehead hurt?”
“Some.”
“Scale?”
“Two.”
“Actual two, or I don’t want Dad hovering two?”
She chews slowly, giving herself time to retract her statement. “Three.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I put the juice beside her plate and sit down across from her with my coffee.
She looks at me over her glass. “You’re allowed to eat too.”
“I ate already.”
“When?”
“Earlier.”
“What did you eat?”
I look at the counter.
“Coffee isn’t food,” she says.
“It is made from beans.”
“That is not how nutrition works, doctor.”
I get up and make another piece of toast. Ellie watches me until I sit again.
“You keep looking at the door,” she says.
I glance toward the front hall before I can stop myself. Her brows lift.
Caught.
I take a breath and set the toast down. “You’re sure you want to go out?”
“Oh my stars, Dad. You have to stop.” She puts down her juice. “You are driving me nuts. I will be just fine outside of this over-protective bubble of yours for one afternoon.”
“I know, but you just got home from the hospital less than twelve hours ago.”
“And I’ve been awake for most of those hours listening to you ask if I’m nauseous.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It wasn’t a question. Now stop. I love you but I want to leave the house for a couple hours and have someone talk to me about something other than my head and knee and medications.”
I rub my hands over my face. “I’m trying not to hover.”
“And yet…”
“I’m aware.”
She takes another bite, then winces when she shifts her leg. I’m halfway out of my chair before she lifts a hand.
“Don’t. I just shifted a little, it’s stiff. No emergency.”
“I can help.”
“I know. I’ll ask if I need it, geez.”
I sit back down, against my parental will.
“Dad.” Ellie looks at me for a long moment. “I know I scared you.”
My hand grips my cup.
“I’m not saying that so we can talk about it for an hour,” she says. “I just wanted you to know, I really know.”
“Okay.”
“And I know today is going to be weird and hard for you.”
“It is.”
“But I don’t want to spend it reliving last night. I want to learn from it and move on. Both of us.”
The words are careful. Not dramatic or polished. Just Ellie, trying to ask for the one thing I keep forgetting to give her.
Normalcy. Or as close to it as we can get.
I nod. “I can do that.”
She looks at me and wrinkles her nose.
“Well, I can try,” I correct.
“That’s better.”
I pick up my toast again. This time, when I look at her, I don’t catalog injuries.
She reaches for her juice. “We’re still doing honesty, right?”
“We are.”
“Even when it sucks?”
“Especially then.”
“Then I have a question.”
I take a deep breath. I’ve known all morning something was coming. “What’s your question, Kiddo?”
“Why hasn’t Annie come by?”
I look at her sweet, innocent face carefully, trying to find the words to explain to her that her father is a raging shitheel.
“She knows I’m okay, right?” Ellie asks.
“I’m sure everyone in town knows by now, El.”
“That’s not what I asked you, Dad.”
I pick up the plates and stand. “El, I’m sure she got the word last night.”
“You’re sure she got word? You didn’t tell her?”
“Ellie, I was a little busy being worried out of my mind.” I lie, with an already guilty conscience. “Getting you to the hospital and home was the only thing on my mind.”
“I just thought...” Her mouth scrunches up. “I just thought, if she cared about me, she would’ve come to the hospital or stopped by this morning at least.”
Great job Bie. Fuck.
“El. That’s not why she didn’t come. She does care about you.”
“Then, why?”
I set my coffee down, look out the window, and rip off the band-aid. “Because I hurt her yesterday.”
Ellie’s eyes flash at me. Time keeps moving forward, and there is nowhere for me to hide.
“What did you do?” she scolds.
“I found your phone outside the clinic. Broken. Then, Erin said you never made it to her house. When I started trying to figure out where you could be, Annie thought maybe you had come in the clinic and heard her argument. She told me what was said.”
Ellie’s face gets stormy thinking about it. “I told you he was awful.”
“He was.”
“But what did you do to Annie?”
And that is the long and short of it. Isn’t it? What I did to Annie on top of everything else she was going through.
“I was terrified. I panicked.”
She waits.
“Emotions were really charged. I thought someone took you. I thought you were hurt. I thought I might never see you again. Annie had just been threatened. That guy had hurt her.”
Ellie gets quiet. “He hurt her?”
“Yes,” I say slowly and put my hand on her arm.
Her eyes fill fast, but she blinks it back. “What did you say to her?”
“I made it sound like she was part of why you ran.”
“But she wasn’t.” Ellie raises her voice. “How could you say that to her?”
“I don’t have a good excuse, other than fear.”
“She yelled at him for talking about me.”
“I know.”
Ellie’s voice gets small and angry at the same time. “So why would you do that to her?”
“I didn’t know what was true and what was not. Fear had my heart and I couldn’t listen.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
She stares at me, waiting for more. My daughter, fourteen, injured, holding me to a standard I should have held myself.
“And you haven’t said you were sorry yet?”
I drop my head and don’t answer fast enough.
“Dad?”
“No.”
She settles back in the chair, looking tired and furious.
Then she simply and honestly asks me, “Dad, do you like Annie?”
I look at her. My daughter. This wonderfully imperfect child, with an old soul and a huge heart and I can only be honest with her.
“Yes.”
Ellie takes that in with a slow nod.
“More than friends kinda like?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“More than coworker kinda like?”
“Yes.”
“So, more like you want to kiss her and act all weird kinda like?”
A belly laugh bursts out of me. “Yes, El. I do.”
“Okay, then.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s it. You know what you have to do.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“When?”
“Right after you leave for Erin’s.”
“Good.”
“So, you’re okay with me liking Annie?” I ask sincerely.
“Dad.” Her expression softens for half a second, then she hides it behind attitude. “It’s more than okay.”
“So, full honesty. I don’t know what she’s going to say. Whether she is going to like me back. So, I don’t want you to get attached and get hurt.”
“Dad, I’m already attached. But it’s because she is a good person, not a potential girlfriend for my dad.”
I hear her.
“Mom loved you,” she says. “She’d want you to be happy.”
“I know.”
“And if Annie makes you happy, then stop being dumb.”
I look up.
She shrugs. “Sorry. Head injury.”
“That excuse has a limited window.”
“Carpe diem.”
Simple. Impossible. Correct.
The doorbell rings. Ellie looks past me. “That’s probably my other rescue team.”
“Your what?”
“Rhea and Erin.”
“You’re not calling them that.”
“Oh I am. They are rescuing me from Dad the doctor. Remember?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I know.”
I open the door to Rhea holding a tote bag and Erin carrying what appears to be enough snacks for six teenagers.
Erin’s eyes go straight to Ellie. “You look terrible.”
Ellie smiles for the first time all morning. “You look jealous.”
“I am. You got such dramatic rescue hair.”
“Don’t make me laugh. My head hurts.”
Rhea looks at me. “You still good with this?”
I look at Ellie. “Absolutely. You guys have fun.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Ellie says and gives a curt salute. She pushes herself up onto the crutches, and gets herself upright.
Slow. Awkward. Determined.
“See?” she says. “Not an invalid.”