by Tawna Fenske
Soph frowns. “Just that she knows stuff. Things that make it all make sense. Like how maybe things had to be bad before so they can be good now.”
I’m not sure we’re still talking about the history of mental health therapy. “I suppose that’s true,” I say carefully, biting back the urge to point out that it’s not so helpful when Mari knows stuff and doesn’t tell me about it.
My kid must read something on my face because she scrunches up her forehead and looks at me like I’ve got beetles crawling out my ears. “You’re weird, Dad.”
“Not as weird as that guy.” I tap a black and white image of a man in a lab coat cupping a human brain. “Maybe we should move on.”
Soph shrugs and skips into the next room. This one’s full of images of young kids, and I have to stop and remind myself that Soph’s okay. That I’ve done an all right job protecting her, making sure she’s strong and resilient and—
“Kids as young as six?” Soph looks at me, horrified. “And they made them stay here?”
I peer at the plaque to confirm what she’s said. “Apparently so. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think that happens anymore.”
Soph shudders. “It must suck.”
“Growing up in an asylum?”
“Well, yeah, that.” She shrugs and turns to face me. “But I meant knowing stuff that might help someone or hurt someone or just mess up their life. But you can’t say anything because your job is to protect one of those people.”
I have no idea where she’s getting this. If I weren’t still pissed at Mari, I might be forced to admit my kid has a good point. “Are we still talking about Mari?”
Soph shrugs again, so I sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “How much do you know?”
She scuffs her toe over the floor. “Mom said Mari was her therapist. That she used to tell her stuff about…about us.”
I feel my hands clenching at my sides and struggle to keep my fingers relaxed, my voice calm. “Mari said your mother never mentioned you.”
When Soph winces, I realize that’s not much of a comfort. “I just—didn’t want you to think Mari knew all about you and still thought it was a good idea for your mom to leave.”
My daughter cocks her head. “But it’s not the psychologist’s job to say something’s a good idea or a bad idea, right? It’s just about helping someone figure stuff out for themselves. That’s what you said before.”
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. It’s one thing to know I have a smart kid. It’s another when she outsmarts me. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Anyway, I wasn’t talking about that.”
Opening my eyes, I peer at her. “What do you mean?”
“About Mari not telling you about Mom. That’s not what I meant when I said it sucks to protect someone when you know something that might make the other person sad. I meant you and Mom.”
Now she’s really lost me. “Come again?”
Soph folds her arms over her chest. “Mom’s not really sick, is she?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and take a deep breath. If there’s one thing I’ve promised my kid, it’s honesty. “I can’t say for sure.”
“But you don’t think she has a migraine?”
I hesitate. There’s no right answer here. “No,” I say at last. “I think your mom had other plans that maybe didn’t include us.”
I’m braced for tears. For anger. For Soph to rage and slam her fists against the wall.
“All right.” She turns and walks into the next room.
Fuck. Is this something we should talk about? I have no idea how badly her mother’s abandonment has screwed her up. I’m not sure what to say or how to react or—
“Joel says, mom leaving wasn’t about me.” Soph whirls so fast I almost run into her. “And Mari said the same thing. That a mom who’d leave her kid must have been really hurting. Do you think that’s true?”
My breath catches in my throat. I know the right answer here, but giving it means letting go of my anger.
Slowly, I unclench my fingers. I didn’t realize I’d balled them into fists, but I release the tension along with some of my fury. “Yes,” I say. “I didn’t understand at the time. I was angry and hurt and embarrassed, and if you want to know the truth, I still am.” God, I hate admitting this.
But Soph’s looking at me like she’s soaking up every word. Like these are big, important admissions she needs to hear from the one stable grownup who’s known her all her life.
So I take another deep breath. “I think your mom was hurting. I think she needed something I couldn’t give her. That the life we’d built together couldn’t give her. I might not agree with how she went about things, but I do understand what it feels like to want something badly. To not know how to handle those feelings.”
I close my eyes, stunned I’ve just admitted all this to a twelve-year-old. A mature twelve-year-old, but a kid nonetheless. Maybe she’s not grasping all the subtext of what I just said. How much it applies to my feelings for Mari.
Mari.
God, I miss her.
When I open my eyes, Soph’s looking at me. She smiles like she’s read my mind. “I’m glad you’re my dad.”
“Thanks.” I swallow back the lump in my throat. “I’m pretty glad you’re my kid.”
She smiles and turns her focus to the new room we’ve entered. Glancing at the signage, I remember this is one I planned to steer her past. The space focused on the worst of the hospital’s history, from violent attacks to mass poisonings. Not stuff a twelve-year-old needs to see.
I ready myself to offer a hug or an explanation or just a soft place to land. But Soph’s shoulders are squared, her eyes dry as she stares at a video screen where a documentary blares the grim story of three thousand urns of cremated patient remains housed in a separate building. Christ, what was I thinking bringing my kid here?
“Sophie?” As she turns to face me, I do my best to block out the grim words. I think about what Mari said that first day Soph told us about her friend troubles.
“Admitting you messed up doesn’t make you dumb or weak. It makes you strong and kind and self-aware.”
Christ. What if I’m the one who messed up here?
First things first. I catch Soph by the arm and look into her eyes. “Look, your mom loves you.” I clear my throat as emotion threatens to pinch it shut tight. “Sometimes I think maybe she loved you so much that she wanted you to have the kind of stable life she wasn’t sure she could give you. That letting you go was an act of kindness.”
My daughter studies me with dry eyes, and I worry I’m getting more worked up than she is. “So that’s what you’re doing with Mari?” She asks. “You think she’s better off without you?”
“What? No.” Christ, how do we keep coming back to this? “Look, I think I may have screwed up with Mari.”
“How do you mean?”
This hurts to admit, but I need to do it. For myself, for Soph…hell, especially for Mari. “I spoke rashly.” I sigh and force myself to look Soph in the eye. “I hurt Mari’s feelings and said things I don’t mean.”
My kid folds her arms over her chest and gives me a look I can picture her flashing at future patients if she does become a shrink. Her expression is wise and serene and, good Lord, what did I do to deserve a kid this clever?
“Remember what Mari said when I told her about Avery?” Soph says. “She said it’s never too late to apologize. You can tell Mari the same thing I said to Avery.”
I doubt it’s that simple, but I’ve heard worse ideas. “What did you say to Avery?”
“Just what Mari told me. ‘I’m sorry I responded poorly and I’m really sorry I hurt you. I’ll try to be a better friend, and I’m wondering if you could forgive me?’”
“You said all that?”
“Yeah.” Soph grins. “I wrote it down after Mari suggested it. You can borrow it if you want.”
My chest burns with love for my daughter. And for Ma
ri, dammit. I didn’t want to feel like this, but here we are. “Anyone ever tell you you’re too smart for your own good?”
Soph grins and uncrosses her arms. “Does that mean you’re going to do it?”
I already knew I was before she opened her mouth. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get cupcakes and make a plan.”
It’s just before noon the next day when we get back to Juniper Ridge. I’m alone in the truck with Soph, who’s dozing with her head on the passenger door.
Emergency!
That’s the lone word my ex-wife texted as Soph and I approached Portland coming back from the museum. We’d been looking forward to dinner in the city with Elle. To a mature, platonic, co-parenting moment.
Emergency? What emergency?
Five nail-biting minutes later, Elle texted the rest.
Problem on set at Hustlers and Housewives. Flying back to LA tonight. Will catch up later.
I pulled off in a parking lot and showed the words to Soph. She stared at my phone for a long time before looking up at me. “We should just go home now, Dad.”
“Home,” I repeated, not sure what she meant. “You mean moving back to Sacramento, or—”
“Dad, no.” She rolled her eyes. “Juniper Ridge. That’s our home now. We should get back to it. So you can fix things with Mari.”
“Good idea.”
We didn’t go back that night, though. Responding rashly got me into this mess, and it’ll take more thoughtfulness to get me out of it. I made a few calls after Soph went to sleep, and I feel good about the plan as we ease off the highway and onto the sparkling asphalt drive that leads to the Juniper Ridge compound.
Soph perks up as we bypass the road to our cabin and head toward the next one. Rubbing her eyes, she looks around. “Are we going right to Mari’s?”
“Yes.” I take a deep breath, hoping this isn’t a mistake.
Soph pats my arm. “Good job, Daddy.”
It’s the best compliment I could receive. Also, it’s the boost I need to be sure I’m doing the right thing. I miss Mari so much I ache with it, but knowing my kid is proud of me? That’s medicine on the cut that’s been killing me for days.
As I pull up to Mari’s cabin, I spot Lauren off to the side talking with Gabe. He’s adjusting a camera that’s tucked in the bushes, but they look up and wave when they see me.
As I ease to a stop, someone raps on the window. “Hey.” Lana grins as I open the truck door. “You ready for this?”
“I think so.” I glance toward the cabin as Soph gets out and comes to stand beside me on the gravel patch just off Mari’s back deck. “Are we sure she’s in there?”
“Lauren and I just did her hair and makeup,” she says. “She had a zoom call with her old mentor, so we convinced her to get fancy for it.”
It’s not something that would have occurred to me, and I’m grateful her sisters have her back. Part of this is about posterity, and I want Mari to feel good about the end product.
That’s assuming she forgives me.
I glance over at Soph. “This is either brave or stupid.”
My kid grins. “Maybe both?”
“Right.” I step out of the truck and scan the camera setup. Besides the one Gabe’s hidden, there’s another on a tripod to the right of her front door. I glance at Lana, who reads the question in my eye. “Might as well get all the angles,” she says. “Mari’s big on documentation. Besides, this only happens once.”
“Let’s hope so.” Not that I don’t expect I’ll screw up again, but hopefully not on such a grand scale.
I plant my feet on the gravel and close the truck door. It’s fifteen steps to Mari’s front door, and I count each of them with my heart hammering in my ears. I’m still not used to having cameras on me, and I try not to look at them. Not to sweat or scowl or do anything to wreck this more than I already have.
Lana and Soph are murmuring behind me as I take a deep breath and rap on the door. Footsteps, soft and familiar, tap across the hardwood. And then she’s swinging the door open, silver-gold eyes widening when she sees me.
“Griffin.” She frowns over my shoulder, and I don’t have to look to know what’s happening. “What are we filming?”
“My apology.” Might as well cut to the chase. “I wanted to document the whole thing, including the moment where you tell me to go to hell if that’s what feels right. I mean, I hope it’s not, but you’d have every right to.”
This isn’t coming out like I planned, but maybe that’s the point. I’m here to speak from the heart and to let the whole damn world hear it if it comes to that. They can do what they want with this footage. I made that clear when I called Lauren last night.
But just as important is that Soph sees this. That she witnesses what it looks like when her dad screws up and does his best to fix it.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I start again. “Mari, I messed up. I was angry and hurt, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice is guarded and barely a whisper. “It’s fine, Griff. You’re entitled to your feelings.”
“But I’m not entitled to behave like a kid throwing a fit.” I glance at Soph. “Sorry. That’s an insult to kids.”
“It’s okay.” She grins. “Keep going, Dad.”
God, I love my daughter.
And I also love this woman standing on her doorstep looking at me like she’s unsure whether to kick me or hear me out. I take a deep breath and start again.
“I’m a grown-ass man who knows better than to lash out like that. I’m sorry, and you have every right to think I’m a grade-A jerk.” I reach for her hand, hoping like hell she’ll let me take it. Her fingers are soft and cool as I lace them together with mine. “I’m sorry, Mari. I felt embarrassed and surprised, and I didn’t respond well to either of those things. You deserve better.”
Tears glitter in her eyes, but she blinks them back. Glancing at the cameras, she gives a quick nod. “All right. Thank you.”
“Jesus, I’ve missed you.” I’m going off script here, but I don’t care. This isn’t about apologizing anymore. It’s about making sure she understands how much she means to me.
“For a long time, I’ve been afraid of feeling things. Afraid of putting myself in a situation to be blindsided and hurt again.” My voice shakes a little, a sign I’m getting into painful territory.
A sign I’m being my truest, most honest self. That’s what Mari deserves.
“I’ve been so damn scared of letting anyone see me be vulnerable,” I continue. “It was the part of this show that terrified the crap out of me, and I thought I could skate around it. But you called me on my bullshit and let me see it’s not so scary to put myself out there.” Laughing, I correct myself. “Actually, that’s a lie. It’s scary as hell, but it’s better than the alternative.”
Her fingers clench in mine. “Which is what?”
“Living without you. Not hearing your voice or seeing you smile or listening to you spout psychology at the dinner table like the smartest fucking person I know.” I glance at Soph. “Sorry.”
“Say ‘blimey,’ next time,” she suggests. “Or ‘bollocks.’”
“Good idea.” I squeeze Mari’s hands. “I can’t imagine a world where I can’t talk with you about things that matter. Where I can’t kiss you or hold your hand or tell you how much you mean to me.”
I swallow hard, conscious of the cameras, but no longer caring. “We’re good together, Mari. You make me want to be a better guy, not just for you, but for Soph, too.”
My kid steps closer and leans into my arm. “You should probably forgive him,” Soph says. “And maybe kiss or something.”
Mari smiles and swipes at her eye. “You think so, huh?”
“That’s up to Mari,” I say. “You can’t make someone forgive you. But you still apologize because it’s the right thing to do.”
I didn’t mean to make this into a teaching moment, but Soph nods. “You did sc
rew up pretty bad.”
“Not helping, Soph.”
“Sorry.”
Mari’s smiling, but the hurt’s still in her eyes. I don’t blame her a bit. I did screw up badly. “Thank you,” she says. “That means a lot to me. I know it wasn’t easy to say.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?” She licks her lips, and I fight the urge to get lost staring at her mouth.
“I made an appointment,” I say. “For myself. With a shrink Soph’s therapist referred me to. Someone who works with divorced guys.”
Her brow furrows. “You’re seeing a therapist?”
“Yeah.” I realize now this sounds like a gimmick, but that’s not what it’s about. “You were right,” I continue. “Therapy isn’t the devil. I have stuff I need to work through. Anger over how the divorce went down. Feelings of embarrassment and inadequacy.”
Saying these words out loud doesn’t sting like I thought it would. It’s like Mari said.
“Admitting you messed up doesn’t make you dumb or weak. It makes you strong and kind and self-aware.”
Right now, I’m very aware of Mari. The way her chest rises and falls with her breathing. The softness of her hand in mine. The way she’s looking at me like she just might give me another shot.
“But—” She hesitates. “You don’t trust psychologists.”
“Not true.” I draw her hand to my mouth, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “I happen to be in love with one. Mari, I love you. So much.”
She blinks at me. Slowly, a smile spreads over her face. It gets bigger and bigger until she throws her arms around me. “I love you, too.” She sniffles in my ear, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard for days. “I’m sorry, too. If I could have told you about Gabrielle—”
“I know.” I squeeze her tighter, reveling in how good it feels to have her in my arms. “You don’t owe me any apologies. I’m the one who screwed up.”
She draws back, swiping at her eyes. “You know what?”
