Page 120 of Pieces of Heaven

Meadow loves eating and cooking, but she isn’t a carbon copy of her mom. Unlike Xenia, our daughter is rarely shy or self-conscious. Meadow takes no guff, sounding too much like her aunt at times. She’s even been known to flash her palm—Kourtney-style—at Tomcat to silence him if he tries to bother me at a get-together.

Kourtney gets in the habit of bringing shark related gifts to her niece. There are Meadow’s shark T-shirts and PJs, the stuffed animal on her bed, the snow globes filling her shelves, and even a shot glass turned into a vase for the tiny flowers she finds around our yard. Whenever Kourtney comes upon a shark on something, she wants to buy it for Meadow.

My sister doesn’t plan on having kids herself. She claims her career isn’t ideal for raising a child. However, I don’t think she can’t see past her own fears enough to give herself completely to someone else.

Her Colorado boyfriend doesn’t pan out. For years, men are only temporarily diversions. She finally hooks up with a rich, older guy who buys her crap nonstop. There are obviously a few daddy issues going between them, but Kourtney seems happy to feel cherished in a way she didn’t enjoy growing up.

Our parents die in quick succession right around Xenia’s fortieth birthday. I like to believe they realized she would never give birth to their key. In my head cannon, they die of despair over wasted lives. Sometimes, I imagine they felt guilt over Kourtney and me, but that’s a lie that never sticks.

Their flock scatters after my parents’ deaths. I see Four from time to time when she volunteers at Wynonna’s charity events. I hear she’s going by her real name again. In no way do I give a shit if the woman is actually happy. I’m only relieved the weirdos will leave my family alone.

With the woods free of the cult, I feel more comfortable bringing Meadow with me on longer walks. We’ll occasionally spend a few days in a tent at Turtle Cove. Meadow loves being outside. She often lifts her face and sniffs the air, imitating me. That shit hits me hard every damn time. A little part of me lives inside this child.

Xenia often joins us, though she’s still wary of overnight camping. Early on, she’ll only sleep in the tent in the backyard, so she can run inside to use the bathroom.

The first time Xenia shits outdoors, Meadow and I applaud while she dances around full of pride.

“Only took six years,” she tells Meadow who climbs into her mother’s lap and admires the tattooed turtles.

I wanted a tattoo to honor my wife and daughter, but most of my “best parts” were already covered. I considered turning one of my older tattoos into something for them. But then one day, I thought about how scared I’d been the day Meadow was born. I couldn’t touch Xenia or hold my little girl. My hands felt grimy in a way I could never get clean.

That’s why I tattoo Xenia across my right hand and Meadow across the left one. Whenever I think my hands are no good for anything except violence, I’ll have reminders of the tenderhearted ladies who love me, scars and all.

Sometimes, I find myself thinking about Xenia’s old dreams. She had so many, and they often contradicted each other. The woman clearly didn’t know what she wanted. That makes sense since she never could have imagined the life we live. Her dining empire consists of three restaurants, a coffee shop, and cooking once a week at the Pigsty. Her dream man is a scary fucker who forgets to talk. Her houseful of children is one awesome kid and three cats.

Yet, Xenia’s dreams infect me. From wanting to keep her shop open to having that awesome kid to seeing the world. Thanks to Xenia, I’ve walked in forests on the other side of the world, slept in a hotel near the base of a volcano, and eaten food I can’t pronounce.

I’m fascinated by how Xenia and Meadow respond to new environments. My wife is surprisingly confident when we travel. She’s always in charge since I get squirrely as fuck on airplanes and even when we travel by car. I doubt I’ll ever become fully accustomed to fitting into a box during trips. But I sure do like the destinations.

Meadow isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe she’s what Kourtney and I would have become if we grew up normal. She’s got her aunt’s confidence. She can settle into chaos like her mom in a kitchen during a dinner rush. She loves to explore nature and sit in the quiet. Meadow is comfortable around her peers, with adults, and alone. She never seems to feel lost or trapped.

When I’m tense on an airplane, she’ll take my hand and talk to me about the Valley. Her words quiet my panic, just like Xenia’s can. I’m in awe of the amazing little girl I helped create.

However, I sometimes worry about how my daughter sees me. Does she think her father’s weird or broken?

When I take her to the muddy, desolate spot in the Valley where my family usually lived, I explain my childhood. How I was often hungry. If I got hurt, no one cleaned my wounds. I share how I had no toys and would sit in the mud like an unloved dog.

I’m probably too honest. She hugs me and cries. Xenia weeps, too. They both own tender hearts. After Meadow wipes her tears, she decides we should camp in that unwelcoming place and create better memories. That’s how her little heart works, impressing me every damn day.

Despite how she often cuddles with me, I suspect Meadow fears what I’m capable of doing. One time, when she’s around eight, she comes running out of the woods as I’m sitting on the back deck. I can tell by her expression how she’s looking for her mom. Meadow’s blue eyes get nervous at the sight of me. Mostly, she looks concerned she might be in trouble.

“Spill it,” I say after squatting down in front of her. “What are you up to in the woods?”

Meadow looks at me like I’m a terrifying motherfucker. Swallowing hard, she turns around and walks back into the woods with me right behind her. She stops at a clearing not far from the yard. Scanning the area, I catch sight of a mangy dog crouched near a tree.

“He doesn’t have any family,” Meadow explains while fighting tears. “No one loves him.”

Kneeling next to her, I stroke my baby girl’s soft cheek. “You shouldn’t be messing with stray dogs. They might not be mean, but they still get scared and bite.”

“No one loves him because he’s ugly,” she says as fat tears pour from her pretty eyes. “He’s got no home.”

I glance at the dog creeping closer. Meadow isn’t kidding about him being ugly. He’s got a funky left eye. His fur is covered in mud, burrs, and stickers. I can’t even tell the color of his coat.

“How long have you been playing with this dog?” I ask, thinking about the often-feral strays running loose in the Valley.

Meadow doesn’t want to answer. She just stares at me like I might leave her alone if she goes quiet for long enough. When I don’t budge, she lowers her head.

“I brought him food.”

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