Jackson
Though I’ve been home for well over a month, I haven’t stepped foot upstairs before tonight.
Granted, until recently, I wasn’t leaving the bedroom unless necessary.
My hand wraps around the smooth light wood of the stair banister, and I head up the long, wide staircase to read the kids a story before bed.
I didn’t admit to Kate exactly how disconnected I feel when it comes to the kids.
It feels easier to find that footing with Kate again—maybe it’s that the feelings never stopped on her end.
But there’s also something about her that makes me feel comfortable opening up to her.
Even if there was nothing else, the wanton look in her eyes and the way her touch sends heat through my entire body would catch my interest. The chemistry between us is pretty damn undeniable.
While they’re mostly sweet and cute, Odessa and Rhett still feel a lot like random kids in the house, and the guilt over my detachment—whether not immediately having that bond with them makes me the world’s shittiest father or will screw them both up permanently—only makes me less likely to engage with them.
Almost like pretending it’s not a problem will make those fears disappear.
But my therapist told me to make room for the guilt, sadness, anger, all of it. Sit with the kids while they’re doing things, even if I feel detached. Take it slow. Don’t expect that paternal bond to happen overnight.
Rhett’s waiting impatiently at the top of the stairs while I take my time, being cautious to not get dizzy on the ascent.
His hair’s still wet from the bath, and there’s a bit of toothpaste dribbled on the front of his Spider-Man pajamas.
Once he’s confirmed I’m nearly to the top of the stairs, he darts into one of the bedrooms, and the sound of the kids bickering soon follows.
The moment I walk into the room, I’m hit with, “Dad-uh, Rhett jumped onto my bed and hurt my ankle.”
Odessa’s sitting in the middle of her hot-pink bed, hands tenderly wrapped around her injured ankle.
“I said sorry,” Rhett protests. He’s sitting cross-legged at the end of her bed with a sheepish look on his face.
“You aren’t sorry.” She thrusts her foot toward his face. “Kiss it better.”
“Gross.” He chops at her ankle with the narrow edge of his flattened hand.
I blink between the two of them, watching the argument turn into full-fledged fisticuffs over…
an accident?! Odessa’s kicking her foot at him, clearly not in as much pain as she made it seem.
And Rhett’s doing his damnedest to avoid the strike of her heel, but he’s smaller and slower, and his sister’s whupping his ass.
“Um, hey…okay, let’s stop.” I half-assedly attempt to prevent any major injuries. I’ve witnessed Kate disciplining them a few times, but I swear it only takes a simple look from her to make them smarten up. I don’t have that look, as far as I know.
Worth a shot anyway.
My eyebrows knit together, and I scowl, struggling to stop the irritation from boiling over.
I’ve yelled at them before, and I hate it.
I don’t want to do that again. My hands curl into fists, squeezing hard enough my knuckles hurt and my fingernails are cutting into my palm, wounding myself to keep from losing my cool with them.
With a deep edge to my tone, I say, “Knock it off.”
Odessa briefly stops to stare at me.
“I’m here for story time,” I announce. “So let’s do that.”
Thank God, that does the trick. Odessa kicks at least a dozen stuffed animals from her bed to make room for me to sit, and before I’m settled into my place between them, the two kids are practically crawling into my lap.
Odessa’s bare legs sprawl across my thighs, and Rhett shoves his way under my arm so he’s pressed tight to my side.
Damp from the bath, his hair soaks through my thin T-shirt, and he stares up at me with giant brown eyes and a face covered in tiny freckles.
“Okay, what story am I reading?”
“You don’t read us a story. That’s boring—it’s what Mom and Gran do.” Odessa giggles. “You always tell us a real-life funny story or you make one up.”
Anxiousness swells in my chest. Aside from a couple funny moments in the hospital, I have nothing kid-appropriate to share from my stingy memory bank.
Making something up seems equally as impossible, at this moment, since the pressure of their doe-eyed stares has my brain quickly turning into a mashed potato consistency.
“I can’t think of any good stories right now. Maybe we’ll start with reading one tonight and I’ll come up with something better soon.”
I’m scouring the internet for a children’s book they don’t own and trying like hell to memorize it.
“That’s stupid.” Rhett pouts.
Odessa reaches to poke her brother. “Swear jar.”
There’s rapid escalation in his pitch. “I don’t even have any dollar bucks to give you.”
“Then you have to clean Clementine’s litter box for one whole week,” she sasses back.
“Can we stop fighting and read a story?” I’m barely audible over their incoherent squabbling.
I’m not cut out for this. That’s clear as day.
Then I notice Kate in the doorway, my jeans slung low on her hips so that the sharp angle of her hip bone is visible in the minuscule gap between her pants and a fitted blue tank top.
Too beautiful for words. She runs a hand through long brown hair, letting it fall tousled down, then ties the thick locks in a bun on top of her head.
And when her eyes meet mine, the skin around them crinkles ever so slightly with a delicate smile.
“Odessarhett.” Their names blur together into one stern word that demands their attention. “If you want story time at all, you better knock it off. Dess, why don’t you tell a story? I bet your dad would like that.”
Kate leans against the doorframe, sliding a hand into the back pocket of her jeans in a way that has me wanting to abandon this futile attempt at establishing a relationship with our kids so I can spend time with her.
But for the sake of every one of us, I stay put.
Odessa nods, and both kids practically swarm me again, pressing their small bodies so tightly to mine I can hardly breathe.
I don’t know how to sit with them—whether to tuck my arms around their shoulders or if it’s weird to rest my arms on Odessa’s legs laid across my lap.
I opt for leaning back on my hands, though it’s not necessarily the most comfortable with the additional weight of Rhett pressing against my side.
Taking her new role very seriously, Odessa leans to grab the water glass from her nightstand and takes a long drink.
Her bedroom is simple and girly, with pink accents throughout and enough princess paraphernalia to supply an entire castle.
Her bed has so many stuffed animals we may never find Rhett again if he accidentally falls into the plush pile.
And between the brightly colored makeup strewn across a small vanity and the Barbie dolls in the corner, it’s a strange juxtaposition; she’s caught in the middle of being a little kid and a teenager.
I swallow the harsh reality that this girl—my daughter—is halfway to being an adult, and I don’t remember any of those crucial younger years. The therapist said to sit with that emotion, but fuck me, it’s painful.
“Okay, do you want a real story or a made-up one?” Odessa asks me, once she’s certain her voice is the best quality possible.
“A real one, definitely.”
It never gets less strange hearing people tell stories about things I said or did that I don’t remember whatsoever, but maybe this is the kickstart I need.
I want to remember all the things that made them love me as much as they do.
Odessa and Rhett look at me like I hung the moon, and I want to look at them like they painted the stars.
“Okay, I’ll tell you my favorite one. I was six or…seven? Mom, how old was I?” She glances toward the door.
“I don’t know what story you’re telling.” Kate shakes her head, straightening her spine and rapping her fingers across the doorway. “Anyway, your age doesn’t matter. I have to go swap the laundry, then I’ll be back to tuck you in.”
“Okay, whatever, my age doesn’t matter. But I know I wasn’t eight when this happened.” Makes sense, given I remember the days since she turned eight. “It was a hot summer day, and I fell in love down by the stables. It was love at first sight.”
She sighs dreamily, and I exchange a confused look with Rhett.
“Her name was Banana, because she was a black cat with a white patch shaped like a Banana.”
This story is heading nowhere fast. I can feel it. “You fell in love with a cat…got it….”
“So Banana and I wanted to get married. It was perfect because for our year-end fun day at school, we had a competition to make dresses with toilet paper and I was pretty good. Mom wouldn’t let me take enough T.P.
to make a dress for me—but that’s okay because I have a lot of princess dresses—but I made a dress for Banana.
“But then I remembered from Uncle Austin’s wedding that we needed somebody to tell us we were married. Rhett couldn’t talk yet, so you did it.”
I snort. “I officiated a wedding between you and your cat?”
“Banana isn’t my cat. Clementine is. Banana lives in the barn because she’s an independent woman.”
Every muscle and tendon aches as I hold back the urge to laugh. And the more I restrain myself, the harder it is to fight that bubbly feeling rising in my body. When it finally bursts free, the kids join in with me, and all the awkward tension finally leaves my limbs.
“You gave us a piece of paper for getting married and played fancy-sounding music on your phone so we could dance.” She sighs fondly at the memory. “And we had ice cream after the wedding except you said cats can’t have ice cream, so Banana had tuna.”
Rhett proudly beams at me. “I was a ring bear.”
“Bearer,” I quietly correct. “That all sounds…fun. Are you and Banana still married?”