22. The Deer
The Deer
WYATT
I woke up and she was the first thing I saw.
Andy was lying on her side, one arm tucked under her head, her braid loose against the pillow. Birdie had migrated in the night. She was curled into Andy, her face pressed against Andy's shoulder, one small hand gripping the collar of Andy's shirt.
I lay there watching them. Andy's arm was around her. I didn't know if she'd done it in her sleep or if Birdie had pulled it there, but it didn't matter. They looked like they belonged together.
I got up carefully, eased the zipper open, and slipped outside.
The desert was cool, the sky just starting to brighten over the red rock.
I got the camp stove going, boiled water for coffee, and set out cereal and fruit on the picnic table.
When the coffee was done, I poured two mugs and sat down to wait.
Andy came out first.
"Coffee's ready," I said.
She sat down across from me. Loose strands of hair framing her face, the sun coming up behind her. She looked beautiful even half-asleep with messy hair.
Birdie came out ten minutes later, still half-asleep, dragging her sleeping bag behind her like a cape.
"I'm hungry," she announced.
We were cleaning up after breakfast. Birdie stacking paper plates, me bagging the trash, Andy wiping down the far end of the picnic table. I turned to grab the plates from Birdie, and when I looked back, Andy had gone rigid. The rag was frozen in her hand, her whole body locked in place.
"Andy?"
She didn't answer. I followed her gaze. A mule deer, maybe thirty yards out, was standing at the edge of the campsite where the gravel met the scrub. Just standing there, watching us.
Her knees buckled.
I was next to her in two steps, and caught her before she hit the ground.
Her body went limp. Dead weight, no resistance, her head fell back against my arm.
I lowered her onto the ground and checked her pulse.
Steady. I leaned close. Breathing, even and shallow.
Pupils reactive when I lifted her eyelid.
"Daddy?" Birdie's voice was small and scared. She was standing a few feet away with a paper plate in her hand, staring at Andy on the ground. "What happened? What's wrong with her?"
I looked at my daughter. Her chin was trembling, her eyes filling up. I had about three seconds before she spiraled.
"Hey. Come here." I kept my voice calm. She came to me. "She's okay, sweetheart. She fainted. Her body just needs to rest for a minute. She's going to wake up."
"Why did she faint?"
"Sometimes people's bodies do that when they get a big scare. It's not dangerous. She just needs to lie down."
Birdie looked at Andy, then back at me. "Promise?"
"Promise. I need your help, though. I'm going to carry her to the tent so she can rest. Can you hold the flap open for me?"
She nodded. She was still scared but she had a job now. She ran to the tent and pulled the flap back, gripping the fabric tight.
I lifted Andy off the ground. Her head fell against my chest. I ducked into the tent, laid Andy down on the sleeping bag, and loosened the collar of her flannel. Her eyes fluttered open for a second and then closed again.
"Is she okay?" Birdie whispered.
"She's sleeping. She just needs a little time." I put a folded towel under her head. "Can you stay with her? I'll get some water for when she wakes up."
Birdie nodded. She let go of the flap and sat down cross-legged next to Andy's head. Her scared look soothed by another task.
I stepped outside and filled a water bottle at the spigot. The deer was gone. I stood there for a minute. Andy Walsh had seen a deer and her body had shut down. That wasn't a startle response. That was something old.
When I came back to the tent, I stopped at the opening.
Birdie had Andy's hair in her hands. She'd pulled the elastic off the braid, separated three sections, and started over. Left over center. Right over center. Small fingers working through the pattern Andy had shown her.
I stayed where I was and watched.
Andy stirred. Her eyes opened, blinked, took a second to focus.
I could see the confusion on her face—wrong place, wrong position, something in her hair.
Then she felt Birdie's fingers and turned her head slightly.
She looked at my daughter sitting beside her with a hair tie around her wrist, completely locked in.
"Daddy carried you inside," Birdie said. "I told him I'd take care of you."
She finished the braid, wrapped the elastic around the end, and patted Andy's head. "All done."
Andy sat up slowly. She reached back and touched the braid. "Thank you, Birdie."
Birdie beamed. She threw her arms around Andy's neck and held on tight. "I was so scared when you fell."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Andy's arms closed around her. Over Birdie's head, her eyes found mine. She mouthed two words: Thank you.
That night, after Birdie fell asleep in the tent, Andy and I sat in front of the fire.
We'd pulled a blanket onto the ground and were sitting side by side, backs against the cooler, our shoulders almost touching.
The fire was low. The desert was quiet. I'd been carrying the question all day, and tomorrow we'd be driving home. This felt like the only time to ask.
"What happened this morning?"
She didn't answer right away. She drew her knees up and looked at the fire.
"It was the deer," she said quietly. "I can't be around them. I haven't been able to since I was seven."
She paused.
"My mother died in a car accident. I was in the backseat. A deer ran across the road and she swerved. The car went off the shoulder and rolled. I walked away. She didn't."
She reached into her collar and pulled out a necklace with a small pendant. She turned it between her fingers while she talked.
"My father had to raise me on his own after that. Just the two of us." She paused. "He never remarried. Never dated, as far as I knew. He worked, came home, made dinner, helped me with my homework. Showed up for every game, every recital, every school thing that needed a parent in the audience."
"He sounds like a good man."
"He was the best man I've ever known." Her voice didn't waver. "He never made me feel like I was a burden, even though I know it wasn't easy." She watched the flames. "He died a few years ago. Heart attack. I was at the academy."
The fire crackled. A log shifted and sent sparks upward.
"I don't think about it most days. But that deer… my body just…" She closed her mouth. "I'm sorry. That must have been scary for Birdie."
"Don't apologize for that."
"Still. She shouldn't have had to see that."
"She's okay. She was more worried about you than scared." I paused. "She wouldn't leave your side."
Andy was quiet. Then she turned to face me.
"You're a good dad, Wyatt. Birdie's very lucky to have you."
I looked at the fire. That last part landed somewhere I wasn't ready for.
My father left when I was four. Packed a bag one morning and didn't come back.
My mom raised me and my brother by herself after that, and she died two years before Birdie was born.
After Lillian was gone, with just me and my daughter left in that house, I was terrified I was going to turn out like him.
"Thank you." I looked at her. "It means a lot to hear you say that."
She nodded. I could feel the heat of her arm next to mine. The fire was low enough that her face was half in shadow. We were closer than we'd been all weekend. Close enough that I could see her pulse in her neck.
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to lean across the small distance between us and press my mouth to hers. I wanted it so badly that my hands tightened against the ground.
She turned her head slightly. Her eyes met mine. I watched her eyes drop to my mouth and come back up.
"Daddy?"
Birdie's voice, small and groggy, from the tent behind us.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Can I have water?"
I closed my eyes for a second. Then I stood up. "Yeah. I'll bring you some."
I filled her water bottle, brought it to the tent, held it while she drank, and wiped her chin before she lay back down. When I came back outside, Andy was banking the fire.
"We should probably turn in," she said. She didn't look at me when she said it.
"Yeah. Probably."
We cleaned up without talking. Rinsed the mugs. Packed the cooler. Simple tasks that didn't require looking at each other. Andy ducked into the tent first. I followed. Birdie was already asleep again, back in the middle where she belonged.
I lay down on my side. Andy was right there, her eyes open in the dark.
"Good night, Wyatt."
"Good night, Andy."
She closed her eyes. I didn't. Not for a long time.
We packed up in the morning. The three of us moved through the campsite. Birdie handed Andy the sandbag anchors without being asked, and Andy stacked them by the truck. She brushed my arm passing me the cooler lid and neither of us stepped back.
The drive back was quiet. Birdie fell asleep ten minutes in, her head against the window, her rock collection in a plastic bag on her lap. Andy was in the passenger seat. The desert scrolled past. Neither of us was filling the silence.
I glanced at her once. She was looking out the window, one hand resting on the console between us. I wanted to reach for it. I kept my hands on the wheel and let the want sit there.
We pulled up to the block just after noon. Andy carried Birdie inside while I started on the truck. She came back out and we worked through the pile together. Cooler, sleeping bags, the camp stove. When it was done, she picked up her duffel and slung it over her shoulder.
"Thanks for bringing me along," she said.
"Thanks for coming."
She smiled. Turned toward her house. Got three steps.
"Andy."
She stopped and turned. "Yeah?"
"See you at dinner tomorrow?"
She looked back at me and smiled. "Yeah. See you tomorrow."
I watched her cross the street.
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.