Page 15 of Free to Live
Still, it’s nice to see such a happy family that Grace is around. It’s pretty evident to me they’ve been together a long time and have their shit tight.
Making a left to turn onto the road back toward the outskirts of Collyer, I muse to myself that I’m glad Grace is going to get to have people like that in her life. People who can show her about the stability of a traditional family.
As Ms. Tiffany zooms by illegally over a double line—obviously still angry over my rebuff of her advances—I let out a chuckle as the blue lights come out of nowhere to pull her over.
And then there are times when small towns don’t mix with people’s noses getting out of joint.
6
Joseph
“Daaaaaaaddyyyy!” Tiny little footsteps beat lightly against the hardwood floor of our rambler. Reaching down, I catch my dark-haired hair, blue-eyed miracle in my arms and toss her into the air.
“Hey, beautiful.” I kiss her on both cheeks. Grace’s giggle soothes out all the physical and emotional aches and pains of any day. “Were you good for Grandma?”
She gives me an adorably indignant look. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles, I used to catch that exact look on Mary’s face when she’d get irritated with me. Which, I think ruefully, was fairly often.
I was only twenty-five when Mary died, but I’ve grown up three lifetimes in the three years since. Gone is the hotheaded Italian who thought nothing could trample his part of the world. Now, I’m first and foremost a daddy whose heart belongs to one woman.
I just have to get her past things like school, best friends, first dates, and puberty—God, help me. All while fielding the advice from every parent in the community, all who feel they can and should dole it out regularly.
Is this my penance for being such an asshole after Mary died? Constant meddling?
It’s bad enough I’ve had the eyes of a community judging how I’m handling my grief, but I refuse to have their eyes continually watching my child. I learned to hide my suffering and to suffocate my pain. And somewhere along the way, something changed. Instead of feeling hopeless, I began to realize I’ve actually been able to do this. I never wanted to do this alone, but I can.
I’m grateful for every day I have with Grace. I feel like we’re growing at the same pace. At first, we couldn’t handle the most straightforward tasks on our own; we relied on everyone else for everything. Then we were teetering along, and I began to resent the help and started objecting when people tried to stick their noses in. But since then, we’ve stabilized. Now, we’re off and running. We’re—in Grace’s case at least—making friends and we’re getting by.
It’s healthy that more and more days pass when the sorrow isn’t what’s flooding my heart; it’s being pushed out by other emotions—flashes of joy, moments of laughter, and hope for the future.
It’s what Mary would have wanted. And, frankly, if the situation were reversed, it’s what I would have wished for her.
“Eden called earlier,” my mother tells me quietly. “She’s demanding to see Grace.”
“Not now,” I warn her. I nuzzle my way through my daughter’s curls and find that perfect baby powder smell. “What did Grandma give you for dinner?”
“Nubbets, pasta, and peas.” I grin, both dimples appearing in my cheeks. I love how my girl calls all bite-size chicken bites “nubbets” ever since my father took her to have “nubbets and fries” on a date.
“Did she save any for me?” I ask with mock innocence.
“Daddy, those are mine.” A little hand slaps innocently against my cheek. “You can have peas.”
I burst into laughter. “Thanks, baby. Let me talk to Grandma for a few minutes, then I’ll come to tuck you in.”
“Okay! Down please.” Grace starts squirming in my arms. I put her gently on the floor, and she tears off in search of her next adventure before she gets told it’s time for lights-out.
Taking a few steps forward, I lean down and kiss my mother on the cheek. “Thanks, Ma.”
She flaps her hand at me. My lips twitch. I’ll be in my fifties, God willing, and I’ll still get the hand flap from my mother. “Don’t be silly. Like it’s any kind of hardship to watch that angel.”
I brush a hand over her shoulder as I pass her to head into the kitchen. Just as I suspected, my mother saved me some chicken Alfredo—with a side of peas. “And I appreciate the dinner as well.”
“I remember what it was like when your father had to work those hours, sweetheart. Always nice to have a good meal on your first night back at home.” Denise Bianco barely looks a day older than she did when my father did work those long shifts. I open my mouth to tell her that, but hers opens first. “Eden is not happy, sweetheart. It was all I could do to prevent her from coming over.”
Pulling a Coke from the fridge, I pop the tab. “When Eden and Seth flat-out told me both Grace and I needed to be in intense therapy since we both appeared to no longer be mourning their daughter, I laid down the law. I appreciate their grief, but I refuse to let it touch Grace. God, Ma.” I lean back against the refrigerator in exhaustion. “Is my baby not supposed to be happy because…”
“No, sweetheart. I agree they went too far. But Grace is the only piece of Mary they have left. What you don’t need is for them to have a scene in the middle of town,” my mother points out logically.
I take a pull of my drink. “I also don’t need to spend days trying to cheer my daughter up after a visit to them where all they do is show her pictures of Mary and make Grace feel upset because she doesn’t remember her. For Christ’s sake, Ma, Grace was eight-weeks-old when Mary died. I don’t hide pictures of the three of us here. But the last time, she came home sobbing because she ‘couldn’t remember Mommy.’ She asked me if something was wrong with her.” Finishing my drink, I crush the can in my hand. “She’s not even three and a half years old,” I hiss.
