Page 54 of Salvation
“Does she look like Ivy?”
My smile grows wider, and I look up at Hayes. “Yeah, she’s beautiful.”
Hayes smiles back. “I hope I have a daughter who looks just like MJ.”
This is how I imagined my life would turn out—sitting around talking about our kids and wives—and for a minute, I pretend that’s what this is. That everything I dreamed about is mine. But Hayes’s next question knocks the wind from my sails, and that dream slips from my fingers again.
“And what about you? What part of you does she have?”
My smile drops. “The worst part.”
Hayes frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I puff up my cheeks, slowly letting the air out. “Willow has major depressive disorder.”
“And you think that’s because of you?” Hayes asks.
I shrug. “Isn’t it? There’s this monster that lives inside of my head, constantly shoving these thoughts at me that I can’t get rid of—scary thoughts—and I never wanted my daughter to feel this way. But she does, and that’s because of me. I did that, man. What am I supposed to do with that?”
My voice breaks, and I angrily swipe at my face to try to stop the tears. But they fall anyway.
“You be a father, Campbell. That’s what you do. You can’t control what your daughter feels, but you can show her that it gets better. So get better, Campbell.”
I don’t know if his answer makes me want to laugh or break something. “And I suppose your answer to getting better is to pray about it, right?”
Hayes shakes his head, sadness swimming in his eyes. “No. If you say you’ve prayed about it, then I believe you. But—I dothink you are making God’s answer linear, and he is not a linear God, Campbell.”
I clench my jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hayes grunts. “I think you do. Have you been to a doctor? Talked to a therapist? Asked about medicine? Have you done any of those things?”
I don’t bother answering because he already knows I haven’t.
“That’s what I thought,” he says smugly. “Why not?”
“Because my faith should be able to move mountains—but right now, it’s not even moving an ant hill,” I grumble, regretting coming here.
“If your daughter had cancer, what would you do?”
“What?” I asked, shocked. “I’d take her to the doctor. What kind of question is that, man?”
“A reasonable one. If she were sick, you’d take her to the doctor, and would you still pray about it?”
I look at him like he’s lost his mind, scrunching my brows together. “Of course I would.”
“What kind of prayers?”
“Hayes—” I say, starting to become exasperated with this conversation.
“Just humor me, Campbell.”
“What kind of prayers?”
Throwing my hands up in the air, I let them settle back into my lap. “I don’t know, man. I’d pray that God would heal her, but I guess I’d also pray that he’d give the doctor the knowledge and experiencetoheal her.”
Hayes quirks a brow with a smirk on his mouth. “So why is that different than your depression?”
“Because it is,” I burst out. He doesn’t understand. I appreciate him trying, but those two situations are not the same. “Because you can die from cancer.”
