Page 104 of Tides That Bind

I don’t give her one.

“Words can be hard sometimes,” Harper says. “And you’ve been doing a lot on your own, clearly.”

It’s not a question, but a statement, and then I realize, it’smystatement from a few weeks ago in the backyard when I told her about my difficulties, when I told her how many times it took me to pass the bar, or how difficult it was to navigate law school, how I had to have people read to me, howNateread to me.

With a furrowed brow I watch as Harper scoots back on the couch, lifting the book and folding her legs beneath it. She doesn’t look at me before she begins to read out loud.

The words are ones I’ve heard many times before—from professors during lectures, from just about anyone else willing to take twenty bucks. But through Harper’s voice, they seem to come easier to me.

Because I don’t just hear them. I feel them too.

I can’t blame Harper for falling asleep an hour later. I’ve got notes and notes taken in my own shorthand, turning Harper’s narration into a much more easily-understandable outline I can review.

When she rolls onto her side facing away from me I get up from the chair, grabbing the knit blanket folded neatly over the edge of the couch, mindful to cover her bare feet.

I take the book, and she nuzzles into the pillow beneath her head. The right thing to do would be to wake her, tell her to go upstairs where she has more space and a softer pillow. But I can’t. I like that Harper is here even if she’s somewhere between her seventh and eighth dream.

The sight of her at rest gives me a second wind of motivation rooted in focus. My eyes don’t feel as tired, my back not as achy from sitting too long in the dining room chair that I return to, preparing to go to battle for Tides, to bring a piece of Nate home now since I couldn’t then.

I force my eyes away from Harper and turn them back to my legal pad. But between every few lines, I flick them up to her, making sure she’s there, making sure she’s okay.

And for another hour, she is okay.

Until she’s not.

My hand holding the pen floats above the table because maybe I’m hearing things. Because the noise drifting in my ears sounds more like a small, wounded animal. It’s a helpless, soft whine.

But I’m wrong.

I stand, rushing around the table toward the couch.

“Hey.” I’m whispering for Harper’s attention so that I don’t wake Lucas, but that seems futile considering she’s only growing louder. “Harper.”

I bend, placing my hand on Harper’s bare shoulder and lightly brush the skin to soothe her out of this dream. But a soft touch does nothing because she’s squirming, hands brushing against the back couch cushions, her flexed feet fighting an invisible weight.

“No. No. Not yet.”

I’m not sure at what point Harper left dreamland. But I knownow she’s swimming in the middle of the nightmare I created for her.

“Please, please come with me.”

My heart sinks, swirling into what must be a black hole in my stomach. It’s gone, like Nate. No rescue and recovery efforts will make a difference.

Her body thrashes now, determined to win the battle, determined to stay afloat. And, as I see Harper’s hands begin to scratch at the pillows, I know she is determined to do what I couldn’t—she’s determined to take Nate with her.

I drop to my knees, doing everything I can to lay Harper down on her back, but god is she strong despite her size. I keep peeking at the stairs, making sure they’re still clear while I gently try to wake her.

Gentle is thoughtful, but not productive, so I use a little more force to turn Harper, but I exercise strength when it comes to my voice.

“It’s just a dream, Harper. Wake up.”

Finally on her back, Harper still struggles beneath my hold, arms fighting to flail.

“Please stay.”

Harper’s words are painful, but it’s how she cries in her sleep, how tears seep out from closed eyes that I’m sure will kill me.

But that’s the hardest part about grief, knowing that it can sneak through even the smallest crack while you’re trying to keep it at bay.

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