Chapter 74
Chapter Seventy-Four
Renthrow
Gordie’s been doing so well. Extremely well. It’s been weeks since she’s had an episode, and we’ve all been so optimistic about her progress that Mom gently brought up the topic of returning to the cruise ship last night.
Is that what triggered Gordie’s retreat under the table?
I clench my fingers into fists and dial the therapist’s office, blustering with fear, helplessness, and anger as I wait for the line to connect.
“Hello?” Gordie’s therapist says.
“She’s under the table again,” I whisper, pacing up and down. “She’s having an episode.”
“Really?” Mrs. Raina sounds surprised. Looks like we’re both clueless here.
Last month, the therapist assured me that Gordie was in a good place and even suggested we space out her visits to once a month instead of once a week. But is this her definition of “good”?
“Mom made an off-hand comment last night that I think is responsible for this,” I explain tersely.
“I see I have Gordie slated for today at five. I’ll speak to her then.”
“I’m just trying to understand what all the talking has done.” I massage the bridge of my nose. “Gordie crumbles at the mere mention of anyone leaving her. This isn’t healthy. My baby’s in anguish.”
“Mr. Renthrow, I assure you that Gordie’s made great strides. This is a setback, not a reflection of her journey.”
“How long is this journey going to be? She’s supposed to be carefree and happy.
She’s supposed to be okay.” I exhale sharply.
“We can stop her grandma from leaving this time, but we can’t control when our last day on Earth will be.
What if Gordie loses someone close to her and can’t recover?
What am I supposed to do if she completely shatters then? ”
Through the window, I see Cordelia zooming down the street on the e-bike I bought. The bike is quieter than her Harley, or I would have heard her coming a long time ago.
“I understand you’re feeling frustrated. Like I said, Gordie’s scheduled to see me today. When she comes back to herself, she and I can meet, and we can get to the bottom of what triggered this episode.”
I hang up on the therapist and jog to open the door for Cordelia. She blasts through, her eyes sweeping the room until they land on Gordie under the table.
I catch the helmet that she tosses carelessly over her shoulder and watch as she shoots to her knees in front of my daughter.
“Gordie, sweetheart, what’s wrong? What happened?” Cordelia coos.
Gordie shakes her head and throws herself into Cordelia’s arms.
I sigh in relief. Since it’s been so long since her last episode, I worried that the symptoms would linger even after Cordelia showed up.
“It’s okay.” Cordelia soothes Gordie, running her hand down her head and back. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
I meet my girlfriend’s eyes and gesture to the car.
Cordelia nods slightly.
Together, we get Gordie settled in the backseat, and I speed out of Lucky Falls to the big-city hospital where my daughter gets her therapy treatments.
As promised, Mrs. Raina sees Gordie as soon as we set foot into the child psychology center, and I wait outside on pins and needles.
Cordelia slips her hand into mine, and I hold on to her for dear life as I wait for the therapist to come out.
To my surprise, the door opens less than five minutes after Gordie went in.
“Mr. Renthrow, can I see you?” Mrs. Raina crooks two fingers in a come-here gesture. Then her eyes land on Cordelia, and she pauses, eyes narrowing. “Are you, by chance, the woman with the motorcycle?”
Cordelia grips the edge of her leather jacket nervously. “I-I am.”
“You can come in too,” the therapist says.
“Me?” Cordelia points to herself. Then she swings around and sets those wide, doe-brown eyes in my direction. “Are you sure?”
I encourage her with a nod and press my fingers to the small of her back, guiding her into the office. Gordie is sitting at the coloring table, nestled close to the large windows. She’s hanging her head guiltily.
“You can sit there,” Mrs. Raina directs, pointing to a large sofa. Cordelia sits and glances nervously between Gordie and the therapist.
I sit beside Cordelia and rest my arm over her shoulder, giving her a slight hug of comfort.
Mrs. Raina smiles across the room. “Gordie, can you come here and tell your dad what you just told me?”
Gordie’s sneakers thump on the ground as she trudges to the therapist and stands in front of us.
I lean forward, and so does Cordelia.
“Go on,” Mrs. Raina encourages in a gentle voice. “Tell them why you went under the table.”
Gordie pouts. “Because I wanted to hang with Delia instead of going to therapy.”
Mrs. Raina glances over at me, her lips pressed together as if to stop her laughter.
I blink slowly because the words don’t compute. “W-what do you mean?”
“Daddy said Delia wasn’t coming for dinner. And I wanted to see her.”
“You went under the table to see me?” Cordelia repeats breathlessly.
“This was not an episode,” Mrs. Raina explains. “It was more like”—she rubs Gordie’s head—“the scheme of an incredibly intelligent little girl.”
I’m so astonished, I can’t even speak.
“So she was putting on an act?” Cordelia explains hesitantly.
“Yes.”
Cordelia blows out a breath, and the shaky sound perfectly sums up what I’m feeling.
“Daddy, are you mad?” Gordie asks in a tiny voice.
“No, sweetie.” I shake my head. “I’m really happy that you weren’t in a bad place.”
Gordie runs up and hugs me around my neck. “I wasn’t sad. I promise. I just wanted Delia to come.”
I engulf her in a hug, being extra careful not to squeeze too tight this time.
“Thank you, Gordie,” Mrs. Raina says with a proud smile aimed in my direction. “You can finish coloring while I talk to your dad and—”
“My new mommy!” Gordie fills in.
Cordelia’s eyes widen while I internally face-palm. I’ve talked to Gordie about this and was hoping that she’d never blurt that out in front of Cordelia. So much for hoping.
Mrs. Raina smiles in a way that tells me this isn’t her first time hearing it either.
“G-Gordie, I’m not—” Cordelia shoots me a quick look as if to check that this language is okay with me. “The thing is…um…your first mommy; I mean, your, um…”
“Gordie and I have talked about this at length,” Mrs. Raina explains. My eyebrows hike because that’s news to me. “But when it comes to mommies, Gordie has a preference.”
Gordie nods firmly. “Mrs. Raina wants me to talk about my mommy, but that makes me feel sad.” She beams a smile at Cordelia. “I want to talk about you because that makes me happy.”
Cordelia’s jaw drops even farther.
“Gordie, go ahead and finish coloring while the adults talk.”
When my daughter’s occupied, I pretend I didn’t hear Gordie’s parting words and ask, “Was she really not having an episode? Is Gordie truly okay?”
“Rather than tell you, I’ll show you.” Mrs. Raina hands over Gordie’s old journal. “You can take a look too, Miss…”
“Cordelia.”
Mrs. Raina dips her head in acknowledgement.
I hold the book where both Cordelia and I can see it and turn the page.
The first picture is of a lone figure with pigtails.
She’s colored in hard crayon scratches. Whoever did this was pressing very hard on the page.
The second picture is of a man in a hockey jersey far away and a woman with a giant X crossed over her.
I wince.
The pictures follow the same pattern of hard crayon scratches, lots of black, dark blues, and nighttime scenes. But eventually, a motorcycle appears in one of the pictures.
“That looks like my bike,” Cordelia says.
Mrs. Raina smiles as if her words just confirmed something.
The picture journal continues, and the bike image starts popping up more.
At first, it’s parked in front of a creatively pink house with a red roof.
And then, a small girl is riding on it. Eventually, both I and a woman in a square jacket—an imitation of Cordelia’s leather jacket—appear on every single page.
And, in every single page, the people have faces with smiles on them, the sky is blue, and the little crayon-drawn stick girl is never alone.
By the last page of the journal, I feel emotions forming a lump in my throat and tears pressing the backs of my eyes. Rather than let them out, I take both of Cordelia’s palms, bend my head fully over, and kiss her on the backs of her hands.
She sniffles. “Renthrow.”
“Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely. “Thank you for coming into our lives. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for saving my daughter.”