Page 35 of Love Wells Kept

She gives me a look. “It is not a fucked-up head. It’s a perfect head that went through some serious trauma.”

“She knows about my perfect head, then?”

Kate rolls her eyes. “Yes. Rhett’s too young to understand, so I didn’t bother trying to explain. As far as he knows, you were ‘big hurt’ and had to spend time in the hospital, and now you’re coming home but still need some time to recover.”

I nod. “Let’s go inside. Get the hard part out of the way, I guess….”

Kate insists on helping me to the house, looping her arm around mine for the slow shuffle across thick, dewy grass. The mountain air feels glorious filling my lungs and cooling my skin, and for a peaceful moment, the two of us stand in silence, breathing it in. Clouds drift overhead, temporarily blocking the sun, and I finally take Kate’s ridiculous sunglasses off. It’s funny how much more I like the view of the ranch when it’s not weirdly orange-tinged.

It seems I was too cocky in my physical abilities, because the few steps up into the house are trying. But Kate, God love her, is apparently the most patient person in the world. She doesn’t comment on the slow pace or the way I stop to take in my surroundings from every new vantage point on our slow journey to the front door, even though there’s a comment to be made about whether I’m simply stalling. The anxiety around meeting my kids is an ever-present beast churning in my guts.

Stepping inside, I’m happy to discover Kate wasn’t lying about the house smelling like fresh baked goods. The space is large, yet cozy, with antique furniture and knickknacks and family photos filling every potential empty space. Soft voices giggle from deeper within the house. The phantom sense of nostalgia and familiarity settles the tension bunched up between my neck and shoulders.

Kate grabs my hand, and her thumb draws a slow heart on the back of it. “Ready?”

Ready as I’ll ever be to meet my children, I suppose.

After a curt nod, she tugs me down a narrow hallway, and I catch the eye of my mom in a family photo. I want to slam on the brakes and insist we linger here for a moment, looking for something to pull my memories from whatever deep crevice they’ve become lost in, but I know there will be plenty of time for staring at the photographic evidence of my life on this wall. So I step into the brightly lit kitchen and blink at the faces staring back at me.

“Daddy!” the two kids chime in unison. It’s a race to see who can get up from their chairs at the kitchen table first, and they sprint toward me.

“Let’s be gentle, please,” Kate warns them. Her hand slips from my grasp and a much smaller one is quick to take its place.

A little girl squeezes her tiny hand around my fingers, staring up at me with eyes that match Kate’s perfectly. At the same time, a tiny boy is trying tirelessly to climb my leg like it’s a tree trunk. I struggle to stay upright until Kate pulls him from me much like one removes a tick.

“Let Dad sit down before you maul him,” Kate scolds him.

The girl, Odessa, guides me toward the table, never letting me out of her periphery. And once I’ve sat, she’s quick to claim the empty chair beside me. Her brother, Rhett, is much less understanding of personal space, and he climbs right into my lap. Sticky hands mat down the hair on my bare arms, then he wraps them around my neck to pull me into a suffocating hug.

“I missed you, Daddy,” he says softly, pressing his palms to either side of my face so he can lock in on my eyes.

He doesn’t know about your fucked-up head, I remind myself.

This is a little boy who hasn’t seen his dad in a couple weeks. A little boy who made that superhero card for that man. And I sure as hell don’t feel like his dad. Don’t even feel like an uncle or cousin or good family friend. Rhett may as well be a random kid I crossed paths with in the hospital.

But he thinks I’m his dad.

“I missed you,” I lie through my teeth, justifying it because Old Jackson would definitely miss his son, if even half of what Kate told me was true. “Were you, uh…were you good while I was gone?”

“Better than Dessie.”

Odessa scoffs. “Don’t listen to him. He’s dumb.”

Kate’s eyes go wide. “Odessa. Come on. You know better.”

“As if knowing better has ever stopped her.” A feminine voice I don’t recognize floods the space, and an elderly woman strolls into the kitchen from the hall.

Her hair’s silvery gray all over, and it’s tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her rich brown skin wrinkles and creases in a series of lines around her mouth and eyes when she beams at us. She brushes her hands over the fronts of her dark-wash denim and adjusts her simple white T-shirt before heading directly for me.

“I’m Beryl.” The old woman crouches in front of me, holding out a hand for a gentle handshake. “Kitchen manager, slash the crazy old lady who spends a lot of time singing in your kitchen—when I’m not doling out unsolicited advice to everyone. And I am so happy to see you, honey.”

“Beryl,” I repeat, willing it to stick. I vaguely recall Kate telling me about her, but the specifics are hazy.

Rhett laughs, his body twisting on my lap. “You guys are silly. Daddy and Gran know each other.”

I look at Kate like she’s my lifeline.

Beryl stands, playfully smacking the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, duh. So silly of me. Hey, Rhett, honey? Want to help me mash the potatoes for dinner? I’ll let you lick the masher afterward.”