Page 2 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
Mr. Emory hasn’t said more than a word or two to anyone since we arrived, but now his manly jaw moves beneath his mask and he says, “She’s too big to be held. She’s four years old and has two perfectly good feet. Stand up straight, Cecily Elizabeth Emory.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Cece says, her teeth chattering.
Her father’s voice softens a little. “That’s my steadfast little soldier.”
Cece tries to salute and stand on one leg like her favorite book character. She wobbles and nearly falls down.
Defiantly, I pick her up, settling her on my hip and wrapping my jacket around her as best I can. “Her feet are wet,” I whisper, “and she is cold. I could take her to the car.”
Charles Emory reaches out his hands to us. “She’s too big for you to hold long,” he says. “Give her to me. She needs to be here for this.”
I hesitate. How dare he imply that I can’t support the weight of a four-year-old, especially one as fairy-light as Cece?
But she stretches out her arms to her father, and I relinquish my grasp. As I transfer his daughter to him, I notice that the top part of Mr. Emory’s mask is wet, and it isn’t from rain. He snuggles the little girl to him, enveloping her in his pea coat. I tamp down my emotions. Grief is not rational, and everyone responds in their own way.
“It won’t be much longer now,” he says, shifting his weight awkwardly to balance the child against him. “We just need to finish saying good-bye to Mommy.”
The big screen behind the pedestal that holds the last remains of Emily Jean Emory shows a lovely blond womanin her early thirties, dressed in a hospital gown and snuggling a newborn baby.
“Will we see Mommy soon?” Cece asks. It nearly broke my heart to hear her confident trust in her father.
“Not today, Cece,” he says, his voice muffled from being buried in the crook of the little girl’s neck. “Not for a long, long time. But Mommy is watching us from heaven. She loves us both.”
“Then why can’t she come home?” Cece pursues the topic relentlessly. “We could go to my school and give her a ride.”
My heart plummets. The child was under the impression that her mother was at Bit o’ Heaven Daycare, probably waiting for them.
But her father had it in hand. “That’s just one tiny corner of heaven,” he says, glancing over at me. “Mommy’s gone to the big part, and she can’t come back to see us.”
The recorded eulogy talked on, unable to appreciate the small drama that played out in front of it. The screen displayed stills and videos of Emily Jean tending her baby, playing with her cute toddler, dropping Cece off at Bit o’ Heaven Daycare, and kissing her goodbye for the last time. That shot had been captured on the front door security camera at the school.
“But why?” Cece protests. There is only a tiny wobble in her voice. “I go home every day.”
Next was a big screenshot of a group of nurses, all smiling at the camera. This was followed by a shot of Emily addressing a crowd of seated people.
Charles Emory lifts his head to stare at it as the group shot faded into a woman smiling at the camera from a hospital bed.
“Because Mommy liked helping people. And she did a beautiful job of it. Such a good job that I guess God wantedher to take care of him. Or maybe he had some angels who needed her help.”
“That’s not fair!” Cece yells, pushing away from her father. He rocks back from the impact, moving one foot behind him to keep his balance. “I need her more! I want my mommy! If you love me, you’ll go get Mommy and bring her home.”
Charles wraps his daughter tighter in his coat, turning them both away from the camera feed. But I can hear him whisper, “That’s enough, Cece. You are making a scene in public.” His voice is rough and raw with emotion, as if he is trying not to cry.
I feel in my pocket for the wad of tissues I’d stashed in there. I cried when I was angry. Masks made crying hideously unfortunate, and I feel as if I’m suffocating. I let the tears run down my face, clenching my jaw. Couldn’t he tell the child was hurting? Would it have been so dreadful to leave her at home? She could have watched this later when she was older and her grief was not so new.
The recorded eulogy ran down to a merciful end. Mr. Emory turns to James and I, the only people physically present. “Thank you for coming and being here with us.”
“You are welcome,” James says. “She’ll be missed.”
Unable to get words through my emotions, I nod my acknowledgement and hand most of the wad of tissues to Mr. Emory. He uses the edge of it to gently wipe Cece’s face, then turns the wad over to dab at a snot smear on his lapel.
“Let’s go to the car,” he says. “The funeral director can take it from here.”
Cece’s car seat is in the back of my brother’s company sedan. Her father carefully buckles her into it, then tucks a soft blanket around her. “Daddy’s legs are too long to ride in the back,” he says gently. “Will you be all right with Miss Kate?”
Cece nods, her lip sticking out and her nose red from crying. “Miss Kate loves me.” Anger rings through every syllable.
There is a world of implication in those words. I can not help but think he deserves the rebuke for being so cold to his child. Mr. Emory comes around the car and wordlessly holds the back door open for me before clambering into the front seat. His face is pale and set. I realize that Charles Emory is in pain. Cece had lost her mother, but Charles had lost his wife.
