Chapter 14
Brooks
My knee bounces up and down, and as much as I’ve tried, I can’t stop it. A nervous energy is trapped inside my chest with nowhere to go. My fingers find a familiar thread on the edge of the couch, and I twirl it between them. It’s become a habit every time I visit here, but I’m afraid I might pull the entire stitching out today.
A hand finds my knee, putting enough pressure on it to hold it still, and when I look up, my wife’s eyes are on me. There’s understanding in her gaze, and with that one look, those nerves start to dissipate. She gets it because she’s feeling it, too, and there’s something cathartic about knowing you aren’t alone in your feelings.
“This will be good for her,” Emryn whispers.
And I nod because I know she is right.
Avery sits beside us, her legs dangling from the couch, and to my surprise, she also has a piece of string between her fingers, twirling it.
Letting go of the one I am holding, I reach out and cup her hand with mine.
She tilts her little chin up to look at me, a question in her eyes. “What are we doing here, Daddy?”
I smile, hoping to ease some of her worries. “We are here to talk to Dr. Phelps. He’s nice. I think you will like him.”
The door behind us creaks open, and the older therapist enters the room. His gait is slow, showing his age, but it’s his white hair that really gives it away.
Avery leans into me, and I bend my head down to hers.
“Is he Santa Claus?” she whispers, and I can’t help the smile that slips onto my lips. The man does kind of look like Santa Claus.
“No, Bug. Santa Claus is still safe and sound in the North Pole.”
She nods but doesn’t take her eyes off Dr. Phelps as he walks over to her. I’m not sure if she fully believes me about him not being Santa. There’s still suspicion in her eyes as she watches him.
When Dr. Phelps stands in front of us, he squats down next to Avery, groaning as his knees crack with the effort. Once he’s level with her, he smiles, transforming his face. There’s a lightness to that smile that would put anyone at ease—even the most hesitant four year old.
“You must be Avery. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Dr. Phelps.”
Avery hides her face behind my arm, peeking out when Dr. Phelps’s grin grows wider.
She stares at him from behind my sleeve, her little eyes narrowing and her mouth pursing.
When she’s completed her full assessment of him, she grows braver. She stops hiding behind my arm, and a little of the sassiness I’ve missed from her over the last couple of weeks shines through. “My daddy says you’re not Santa Claus, but I don’t believe him. I’ll keep your secret, though.”
Emryn covers her mouth with her hand, trying to hide her smile, and Dr. Phelps winks at Avery.
“That’s nice of you, young lady, but your dad is right. I’m just an old man with the hair to match.”
At this, Avery loses that sparkle that had come back in her eye and sits back, crossing her arms.
Dr. Phelps doesn’t miss the shift in her, watching her with a keen eye as he stands and slowly makes his way to his chair.
Once he is sitting, he turns back to Avery, who has returned to hiding behind me.
“Avery, if you don’t mind—before we start to talk—I would like to say a prayer. Is that okay with you?”
She shrugs, not offering him an answer, but he must take it as an okay because he bows his head, and Emryn and I follow suit.
“Dear heavenly father, we come here in your name today, seeking to remind a little girl of your everlasting mercies and love. Help us get to know each other, Lord. In your name, I pray. Amen.”
When I open my eyes, Avery has her head cocked, staring at Dr. Phelps.
“Why did you do that?” Avery asks, not taking her gaze from him.
“Pray?” he asks, giving her all his attention.
Avery nods.
“Because I believe that God can help us, even in the smallest situations, and I want his guiding hand when I am trying to help others.”
“But why?”
Dr. Phelps chuckles softly, remaining unflustered by Avery’s line of questioning. Beside me, Emryn grabs my hand, holding it tight, and I hold my breath, waiting to see how this all turns out.
“Can you keep a secret, Avery?” Dr. Phelps asks, leaning closer as if he is conspiring with her. Avery shakes her head, her face serious. “It’s because I have no idea what I’m doing down here without him. I’d be a total disaster, and even though I don’t always understand what he’s doing, I know God loves me and wants good things for me.”
Crossing her arms, Avery pokes out her bottom lip. “I’m mad at him.”
Emryn opens her mouth to speak, but I shake my head. We both agreed that we wouldn’t make Avery come in alone. It’s not that we don’t trust Dr. Phelps—we do—but she’s four. That felt like throwing her to the wolves and hoping she survived. But even though we agreed not to make her do this alone, we also decided to keep quiet and let Dr. Phelps do his job.
“How come?” he asks her, his voice remaining casual.
“Cause he’s going to take my Papaw Kip away from me.”
“Ah, I see,” Dr. Phelps says. Understanding flickers through his eyes, and he stands without another word, walking over to his desk to retrieve something before coming back to sit again. He’s holding a picture frame with a picture of a young woman tucked inside. There are sepia tones throughout the coloring of the photograph, revealing its age. Stretching out his hand, he says, “That’s my wife.”
Avery looks at the picture, taking it in before she says, “She’s pretty.”
Dropping his eyes to the frame, Dr. Phelps takes in the picture with a sad smile. “She was beautiful, even in her older age, but she’s in heaven now.”
My daughter’s mouth drops open, rage filling her eyes. “Are you mad, too?”
My heart aches for the man as he nods. I can’t say I blame him. The thought of losing Emryn leaves a deep void inside my chest.
“I was angry for a very long time. Can you tell me what it feels like when you are mad?”
Avery shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes.
“That’s okay,” Dr. Phelps says, his voice soothing. “How about I tell you what it felt like when I was mad, and you can tell me if that’s what you’re feeling? Does that sound okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers. Her hands tremble, and I reach out, holding it in mine and letting her know I’m right here with her. She doesn’t have to face this alone.
“Sometimes, when I’m angry, it feels like a big ball is sitting on my chest. Right here,” he says, tapping a finger against his sternum. “Is that what you feel when you are angry?”
A small nod, barely perceptible unless you are watching, is all Avery offers.
“Oh, and sometimes when I’m angry, my face gets really hot, like I’ve been running around and swinging on the monkey bars.”
A giggle. One small giggle is what she offers this time, but it’s one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard.
“You play on the monkey bars?” Avery asks, disbelief coloring her tone.
“What? Do you think I’m too old for that?” Dr. Phelps pretends to be offended, and Avery nods, a smile playing on her lips. “I’ll have you know, I’m still the monkey bar champion.”
Another giggle and Avery says, “I think I could beat you, Dr. Phelps.”’
The older man scoffs in pretend outrage, and I watch them, excited to see that Avery’s talking to him. Then she does something unexpected. Slipping her hand from mine, she stands and walks over to where she is standing in front of Dr. Phelps. She places her hand on top of his and looks up at him. “My face feels hot, too.”
And, yeah, we still have a long way to go with Avery—this journey won’t be a short one—but even still, the fist around my chest loosens its grip as I watch Avery connect with someone who gets her.
A year ago, it would have bothered me that it wasn’t me—and maybe a tiny part of me still feels like a failure because of that—but a bigger part recognizes that what Emryn said is right. Being the best dad sometimes means finding help where I can’t give it.
______________________
“Was today as hard as you thought?” Emryn’s voice floats over to me from where she’s standing in the doorway of our en-suite, brushing her hair. The strands hang around her shoulders, the color of our daughter’s, making me smile. Avery might as well be a mini version of Emryn, and I love it.
My eyes travel down from her hair to the shirt she’s wearing. It’s mine. She’s worn my shirt to bed the whole time we’ve been married, and I don’t think I will ever get over the sight. It does something to my chest every time I see it.
“Brooks,” Emryn chuckles, “I need you to focus.”
I snap my attention to her. “I can’t help it. You’re distracting when you’re in our bedroom wearing my t-shirt.”
Emryn rolls her eyes and saunters over to where I’m lying on the bed, swatting me with the brush when she is close enough, but I’m faster than her. Catching hold of her wrist, I pull her onto the bed. She lets out a squeal but comes willingly, falling onto my chest. I wrap my arms around her, and her hands link behind my neck, playing with my hair at the nape.
I press my lips to her forehead, and when I pull back, her eyes are closed. I can’t help the faint smile that slips onto my lips.
She keeps her eyes closed as I stroke my hand down her spine.
“I think—for all intents and purposes—that it went well. I won’t lie and say being there wasn’t hard for me. It made me feel helpless in a way that I never wanted to feel in my daughter’s life, but I also think that it helped me recognize that it doesn’t always have to be me that fixes the problem.”
A hum of acknowledgment comes from her chest, the sound vibrating against mine, but she doesn’t say anything for several minutes.
“I’m glad, you know—that you finally figured that out—because sometimes I worry that you take too much weight on your shoulders—things you were never meant to carry.”
My hand stills on her back. “You’re not wrong. I do, but I’m trying to work on it.”
Her chin bobs against my chest, and she’s quiet again. “I’m trying to work on things too.”
“Like what?”
Mossy green eyes flash open, meeting mine, and there’s a wariness in them when she says, “Like not letting my insecurities take over without talking to you about them.”
My brows furrow, pulling together until a wrinkle forms between my brows. “What insecurities?”
I stop the descent of my hand, waiting for her answer. Emryn pulls her eyes from mine before they dart back. “I just—before I tell you, I need you to know this isn’t a reflection on you. This is me—all me.”
The wobble of her voice cracks a piece of my chest.
“Emryn,” I say, dragging my hand back up and taking her chin between my fingers. “You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. I want you to talk to me—even if you think it might. We know what it’s like to bottle those emotions up, and I don’t want to go back there. So talk to me—without worry.”
Her gaze darts over my face, searching for the truth in my words, and I let her see it—all the ways I love her. I let it shine back to her through my eyes. And she must see it because the worry that wrinkled the creases of her forehead relaxes as she takes me in.
“I think sometimes I just need assurance that you love me and aren’t going anywhere. It’s not because you’ve done anything to convince me otherwise, but I just—I get in my head, and I convince myself that one day, you’ll look at me, and that love you have for me won’t be there anymore. I’m terrified of that.”
I try hard not to let those words hurt me, but they still sting a little—mostly because I never want Emryn to feel that way. But on the other hand, it doesn’t surprise me that she carries this worry around. Growing up with Emryn gives me the unique advantage of knowing her—really knowing her—and one thing I know about her is that she worries, even when those worries are misplaced. So I get why she feels that way, but I hate that she does.
“Has there been something that’s happened recently that’s set that worry off for you?” I ask, careful to hide that sting from her.
I was being honest when I said I want us to talk, even if it hurts our feelings, but I also know this small pain is not one she needs to know about—mostly because I know it won’t turn into a sore that festers in my chest. But if Emryn knows, she might clam up and hide her feelings because she doesn’t want to hurt mine.
Her bottom lip slides between her teeth, and I wait, giving her time.
“Maybe,” she says at last.
Scooting up on the bed, I lean my back against the headboard, bringing her with me.
“When?” I ask.
Her voice is a whisper against my skin when she says, “Your vows. I know you aren’t the guy who expresses himself in words. You value actions, and I appreciate that, but—”
She trails off, not finishing her thought.
“But what? Come on, pretty girl. Don’t stop talking to me now. I want to know these things.”
Taking a deep breath, she sighs. “But words are important to me, and I’ve somehow convinced myself that maybe you don’t want to write them because maybe you’re questioning this—us.”
“Emryn, I want you to look at me when I say this.” It’s not a question but a demand. The edge of my voice is rough. “There will never be a day that I don’t love you. From the time I was six years old until my last breath, my heart is yours. And you’re right—I try to love you with my actions, but if you need words, too, that’s all you have to say. I can give you those, but maybe just don’t expect poetry, okay?”
Her soft laugh is like a light in my heart, lighting me up from the inside.
“I just want honest, Brooks, and I want to give you the same. I should have talked to you sooner, but I was scared.”
“Of me?”
She shakes her head. “No. Maybe a little. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand, and this would become one of those weights you place on our shoulders—worrying about it. Because I do know you love me. I just have a way of convincing myself that I’m not worthy of that love.”
I don’t answer her, dropping my lips to hers and kissing her until my whole body feels like it’s on fire. And when I finally come up for air, I almost laugh because the truth is, I’ve always liked playing with fire. “You are worthy of everything, Emryn. Always.”