Page 96 of Island Girl

“How did you come to understand that?”

“I started studying it. Psychology, trauma, PTSD. I'm in my second year at the University of Miami. I want to be a psychiatrist.” Heather met Merritt's eyes. “I want to specialize in trauma. In helping people like my father.”

Merritt felt something shift in her chest. This young woman had taken her pain and turned it into purpose. She'd spent years trying to understand the man who'd left her instead of simply hating him.

“Paula called my mom a few weeks ago,” Heather continued. “After the incident at the bar. After what happened with you.”

The familiar weight of guilt settled in Merritt's chest. “I'm sorry. I never meant to cause trouble. I just thought if I could reach him somehow…”

“You did reach him.” Paula leaned forward. “That's what I've been trying to tell you. What happened that night, it broke something open. He's been going to the VA. He's eating, talking, engaging with the world. For the first time in two years, he's actually trying to get better.”

“Because I pushed too hard and he exploded?”

“Because sometimes things have to break before they can heal.” Paula's voice was gentle. “You opened a door, Merritt. You didn't know what was on the other side, and neither did he. But you opened it anyway.”

Heather shifted on the couch, drawing her legs up underneath her. “There's something else I want to tell you. About who my father was, before the war.”

“Okay.”

“He was a musician. Did you know that?”

“Paula told me once. That he used to play. Piano, guitar, singing.”

“All of it. He was incredible. Self-taught, mostly. He used to play bars when he was sixteen, lying about his age to get gigs. By the time he met my mom, he was playing weddings and parties and anywhere else that would have him.” Heather's eyes grew distant, looking at something Merritt couldn't see. “Mom says he had this voice. Gravel and honey, she called it. The kind of voice that made you stop what you were doing and listen.”

“He told me once that my music reminded him of someone he used to know,” Merritt said. “Someone he used to be.”

“That sounds like him. Or who he was, anyway.” Heather's voice dropped. “He gave it all up. After he came back. The music, the family, everything.”

The room was quiet. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Merritt thought about Ray at the bar, night after night, sitting alone with his ghosts. She thought about the untouched whiskey, the silent corner, the way he'd exploded when she'd tried to reach him.

“There's one more thing,” Heather said quietly. “Something that might sound strange.”

“Tell me.”

“When I was twelve, I found an old acoustic guitar at a thrift store. I don't know why, but I felt like I had to learn to play. Like something was pulling me toward it. So I taught myself. I've been playing ever since.”

Merritt thought about her own guitar, her mother's gift, the way music had always felt like a lifeline. “That doesn't sound strange at all.”

“That's not the strange part.” Heather took a breath. “There's a song. A lullaby. I've known it my whole life. The melody, the words, all of it. It lives in my head like it's always been there. I didn't know where it came from until I asked my mom about it a few years ago. She told me it was something my father used to sing to me. When I was a baby. Before he left.”

“You remember a song from when you were a baby?”

“I know it doesn't make sense. But it's there. It's always been there.” Heather's eyes were bright with unshed tears. “He wrote it for me. My mom said he wrote it the week I was born. And somehow, even though I was too young to remember anything else, I've carried that song my whole life.”

Merritt felt tears prick at her own eyes. She thought about Crocker's words, about leaving doors open and hoping people walk through them. She thought about Ray, sitting at the bar every night, ordering his Coke and his cheeseburger, slowly learning how to be human again.

“I want to sing it for him,” Heather said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want him to hear it and know that I remember. That some part of him stayed with me, even when he couldn't.”

“He comes to Shorebirds,” Merritt said. “Every night. He's there when I play.”

“I know. Paula told me.”

“If you came to hear me play, he'd be there. You could sing the song.” Merritt paused, thinking it through. “Not announced or anything. Just naturally. I could bring you up to do a song, and you could sing it.”

“Do you think he'd recognize it?”

“I think if he wrote it for you, he's never forgotten it. Not really.”