Chapter 22
Remedy
Charlie approached packing for one night at Daisy's house with the determination of someone preparing for an expedition across the country rather than an evening spent fifteen minutes away.
By the time she declared herself finished, the little pink backpack on her bedroom floor bulged at the seams. Three pajama shirts competed for space with one pair of shorts, two mismatched socks, four crayons, a plastic stethoscope, half a sleeve of crackers, and a smooth gray rock she insisted was asleep and therefore couldn't be disturbed.
Mr. Pickles had apparently refused to fit inside.
“He needs air,” Charlie explained when I asked why the bear was strapped beneath one arm instead.
“Of course he does.”
“He gets stuffy.”
“I imagine that’s difficult for a bear.”
She nodded gravely, then returned to pressing a sparkly purple shoe into the bag with both hands. The shoe already belonged to the pair she was wearing, which meant she had somehow found a third one.
I crouched beside her.
“Bug, where did that come from?”
She glanced down.
“My foot.”
“You currently have two shoes on your feet.”
Charlie inspected them as though their presence surprised her.
“Oh.”
I held out my hand.
She surrendered the extra shoe reluctantly.
“What if I need it?”
“You have two.”
“But what if one gets tired?”
I looked toward the doorway.
Sunshine stood there with one shoulder resting against the frame, trying not to laugh.
“Do not encourage her,” I warned.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Your face is encouraging her.”
Charlie looked at Sunshine.
“Shoes get tired.”
“They might,” Sunshine agreed solemnly. “But I think Miss Daisy owns blankets. She can tuck them in if necessary.”
Satisfied, Charlie zipped the backpack with considerable effort before standing and nearly toppling backward beneath its weight.
I caught the strap.
“What else did you put in here?”
“Things.”
“That answer concerns me.”
“They’re important.”
Sunshine crossed the room and helped me open the bag again.
Beneath the pajamas, crackers, crayons, rock, and medical kit, Charlie had packed two picture books, a wooden spoon, one of my socks, a toy motorcycle missing its front wheel, and the yellow drawing of the three of us beneath the same roof.
My hand paused when I saw it.
Charlie reached past me and carefully flattened one bent corner.
“I’m showing Miss Daisy.”
“She’s already seen it,” I said.
“She needs to see it again.”
Sunshine lowered herself beside us.
“Why?”
“Because I made it.”
There was no deeper explanation because there didn’t need to be.
Three-year-olds understood pride better than modesty and love better than caution. Charlie wanted Daisy to see the drawing again because it mattered to her, and anything that mattered deserved repeating.
I folded it carefully and slid it between the two books.
“All right. The picture can go.”
“And Daddy’s sock.”
“No.”
“It misses me.”
“My sock does not have feelings.”
Charlie stared at me with open disbelief.
Sunshine reached into the bag, rescued the sock, and handed it over.
“I think it’ll be all right here with your daddy.”
Charlie considered the argument before leaning toward the sock.
“I’ll come back tomorrow.”
I covered my mouth with one hand.
Sunshine looked away, shoulders shaking.
Charlie tucked Mr. Pickles more securely beneath her arm, then held both hands toward me.
“Up.”
“You are capable of walking.”
“I have luggage.”
“That backpack weighs more than you do because you tried to bring the kitchen.”
“Up, Daddy.”
I lifted her.
She settled against my chest with the confidence of someone who had never doubted she would be carried.
A knock sounded downstairs.
Daisy.
Charlie twisted in my arms so quickly that Mr. Pickles nearly struck me in the face.
“Girls’ night!”
Her shout echoed through the house.
“Apparently,” I said.
She began wiggling before we reached the stairs, impatient to escape my hold and begin whatever plans she and Daisy had developed without consulting anyone responsible.
When I opened the front door, Daisy stood on the porch wearing jeans, boots, and an expression of exaggerated seriousness. A small overnight bag hung from one shoulder.
“Is she ready?”
Charlie leaned toward her.
“I packed.”
Daisy eyed the bulging backpack.
“For a month?”
“One sleep.”
“Good. I only bought enough snacks for six people.”
Charlie gasped.
“What kind?”
“Secret girls’ night snacks.”
I shifted my daughter higher on my hip.
“She ate dinner.”
“She’ll eat again.”
“She always does.”
Daisy held out her arms, and Charlie transferred herself without hesitation.
The ease of it should not have surprised me.
Daisy had been part of Charlie’s life since the beginning, through fevers, daycare emergencies, bad dreams, birthday cakes, scraped knees, and mornings when I had returned from club business carrying exhaustion I could no longer hide.
If Charlie belonged to me, some part of her belonged to every person who had helped me raise her.
Daisy adjusted the backpack.
“What’s in here, bricks?”
“A rock,” Charlie said.
“Only one?”
“It’s sleeping.”
“Obviously.”
I handed over the smaller bag I had packed afterward with clothing Charlie might actually need, toothbrush, hairbrush, and the medicine she would almost certainly not require but I supplied anyway.
Daisy glanced inside.
“You labeled the pajamas.”
“There are two sets.”
“With times.”
“One is warmer.”
“It’s August.”
“She gets cold.”
“You packed three thermometers.”
“They measure differently.”
Daisy closed the bag.
“I raised a sister, Remedy. I’ve kept half the children in Harbor House alive through flu season, thunderstorms, and Mace attempting to teach them how to use power tools.”
“He supervised.”
“He brought goggles.”
“Safety matters.”
“Go cook dinner for your girl.”
My attention shifted toward Sunshine before I could stop it.
She stood several feet behind us in the hallway, hands folded loosely in front of her. She had changed after leaving Harbor House, trading her usual sweatshirt and jeans for a soft yellow dress that fell below her knees. Her hair rested loose across her shoulders.
My girl. Daisy's words settled in the center of my chest, and Sunshine's cheeks warmed.
Charlie looked between us.
“Sunshine’s eating here.”
“Yes,” I said.
“With no kids?”
“No kids.”
Charlie frowned.
“I’m a kid.”
“I’m aware.”
“Why no kids?”
“Because you requested a girls’ night with Miss Daisy.”
Charlie thought about it, then leaned close to Daisy and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Daddy might kiss her.”
Daisy’s face broke first.
Sunshine covered her mouth.
I stared at my daughter.
“Where did you get that idea?”
Charlie shrugged.
“You like her.”
The answer carried the simplicity of weather.
I could not argue with it.
Daisy recovered enough to press a kiss against Charlie’s temple.
“We should leave before your father turns the same color as Toxic’s bike.”
“My bike is black.”
“You’re getting there.”
Charlie waved one little hand toward Sunshine.
“Bye, Sunshine.”
“Have fun.”
“I will.”
Then she looked at me.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, Bug?”
She reached toward my face until I stepped closer. Her small palm pressed against my cheek.
“You come get me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“After breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“Not before pancakes.”
I smiled.
“After pancakes.”
She accepted the promise, kissed my forehead, and settled back against Daisy.
The truck door closed several minutes later.
Charlie waved through the window until Daisy turned at the end of the road and disappeared behind the pines.
I remained on the porch after the sound of the engine faded.
The house behind me felt too quiet. It always did when Charlie slept somewhere else.
Her absence seemed larger than her body, stretching through every room and settling into every space where toys, laughter, and unfinished questions usually lived.
Sunshine stepped beside me. "You can call Daisy."
“I already did.”
She turned toward me.
“When?”
“While she buckled Charlie in.”
A smile curved across her mouth.
“What did Daisy say?”
“To stop calling.”
“That sounds like her.”
“I’ll wait twenty minutes.”
“You should probably make it thirty.”
“That seems excessive.”
Sunshine’s shoulder brushed mine.
The touch lasted only a moment.
Still, it steadied something inside me.
“You miss her,” she said.
“She’s been gone three minutes.”
“I know.”
I looked toward the empty road.
“She’s never stayed away much.”
“Does she usually sleep at Daisy’s?”
“Sometimes. Mostly after late club meetings or when I’m on an emergency rotation.”
“Not for this.”
“No.”
The admission brought a different nervousness with it.
This was not necessity.
No one had called.
No one was injured.
Charlie had not needed childcare.
I had chosen an evening alone with Sunshine, and she had chosen to come.
That felt more intimate than anything that might happen afterward.
“I should check dinner,” I said. Sunshine followed me inside.
I had spent the afternoon trying to cook something that did not come from a box, a diner, or Daisy’s kitchen.
The result waited in the oven beneath a sheet of foil.
Chicken.
Roasted vegetables.
Potatoes.
Nothing extraordinary.
I had selected the meal because Sunshine once mentioned that the Order served food without seasoning, as though pleasure itself encouraged disobedience.
Since then, I had noticed the way she reacted to ordinary flavors.
Fresh herbs. Butter. Lemon. Cinnamon. The small pause before her first bite, like she was still surprised food could taste like something people wanted rather than something they endured.
She approached the stove while I removed the pan.
“That smells incredible.”
“Wait until you taste it before committing.”
“You cook pancakes.”
“Pancakes are difficult to ruin.”
“I watched you burn one last week.”
“Charlie distracted me.”
“She asked whether dinosaurs had belly buttons.”
“A serious medical question.”
Sunshine laughed.
The sound moved easily through the kitchen.