Happily Letter After by Vi Keeland
CHAPTER 11
SEBASTIAN
Nights like this, I thanked God my daughter was here sleeping. If Birdie wasn’t home, I might have drunk the entire bottle of scotch or made some other reckless decision. The biggest mistake I made tonight was checking my damn email right before bed. Because now there was no chance of getting any sleep.
I must have read Sadie’s message over ten times, but it never got easier to comprehend the fact that my daughter would sooner unload her fears onto a stranger than talk to me. It was a wake-up call. I knew I hadn’t been there for Birdie in the way she needed. As much as I tried my best to make her happy, I’d been emotionally unavailable, and my daughter knew it. That was the way I’d always dealt with Amanda’s passing, by bottling up my pain and keeping busy.
Sadie Bisset.
There had been something about her from the very beginning. She was a knockout, but I’m not referring to her obvious good looks. There was something oddly familiar about her. I could never figure it out. Now that strange air of familiarity made sense. Even though I didn’t know her, in an indirect way, she knew me. And she certainly knew Birdie.
Her pretending to be the dog trainer was asinine, though. There was no doubt about that. But everything else? I still didn’t know what to make of it.
In some ways, what she’d done for my daughter was endearing, and in other ways, a little insane. But the more I processed that email, the more I did believe Sadie meant no ill will, that her intentions had been good. And there was no way she was making this story up, because she simply knew too much. Everything she mentioned that Birdie had said matched up. It was a relief to know that the dog-trainer act hadn’t been malicious. Because of my own anger, I’d given her no chance to explain herself that day. Not knowing who the hell she was and where she’d come from had been haunting me, made worse by the fact that I blamed myself for my poor judgment. Now, at least, everything made sense.
When it hit me, I started to laugh deliriously. The socks.
The fucking socks.
The next morning, I did something I rarely did. I made pancakes. Or I tried to make pancakes. Saturday was Magdalene’s day off, which meant Birdie’s breakfast normally consisted of whatever sugary cereal she’d pull from the closet. Cookie Crisp was her favorite.
But today I vowed to give my daughter a proper breakfast and to have a chat with her when she got up.
Birdie had slept later than usual. She walked into the kitchen rubbing her eyes, her blonde hair a knotted mess.
I flipped the pancake using just the pan to turn it over. “Morning, sunshine.”
Her little voice was groggy. “Daddy . . . are you cooking?”
“I sure am.”
“Are you sure you should be using the stove?”
That made me laugh. My little girl officially had no faith in her father’s cooking skills. But I’d really given her no reason to.
“Hey, now. Your dad is a restaurateur. I know a thing or two about food.”
“You know how to burn it.” She giggled.
I quickly flipped the pancake I’d been making around again to hide the somewhat overdone side. Then I plated it with the good side up before handing it to her.
“Does this pancake look burned to you?”
“No.” She laughed. “Thank you for making it, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. I’m making plenty more, too. Go grab the syrup and whipped cream.”
After Birdie sat down, I made two more pancakes before grabbing myself a mug of coffee. Then I took a seat across from my daughter. She ate quietly and seemed to be enjoying the flapjacks. Her mother used to make them into Mickey Mouse heads. I was afraid to even attempt that.
Resting my chin in my hand, I said, “Hey . . . I know it seems like I’m always busy. But I want you to know that I’m never too busy for you. If you’re ever worried about something, there’s nothing you can’t tell me. I want to know what you’re thinking. Promise me you’ll come to me if something is ever bothering you.”
Her chewing slowed as she looked up at me with her big eyes. “Okay.”
“You mean that?”
She resumed devouring the pancake. “Yes,” she said with her mouth full.
After a minute of watching her eat in silence, I tilted my head. “Anything bothering you in this moment that you want to talk to me about?”
She lifted her milk and swallowed it all down in several gulps, then wiped the top of her lip with her sleeve. “No, Daddy,” she finally said.
I’d been hoping that she would open up to me about her concerns regarding Sadie. Then I would have had the opportunity to assure her that the situation wasn’t her fault. But she said nothing. I realized that despite her assurance that she’d tell me what was bothering her, she still had no intention of opening up to me. And that gutted me. But you can’t change old habits overnight. In that moment, I vowed to be more on top of things moving forward, to not let her drift away from me any more than she already had.
“Thank you for making me pancakes.”
“My pleasure, baby girl.”
She got up and put her plate in the sink before running some water over it.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To play in my room.”
I frowned but didn’t fight it. “Alright.”
As she was about to head down the hall, I stopped her.
“Hey . . . I’ll let you play for a half hour. But how about we take Marmaduke to the park after? Toss around a ball with him.”
She shrugged. “Okay.” Then she headed back down the hall to her room.
I knew I couldn’t be everything she needed. A girl her age needed her mother, and that was the one thing I couldn’t give her. Still, especially after what I now knew, that she sought the help of a stranger, I needed to try harder to fill that void as much as I could.
I deserved a gold star for parenting today. I’d stuck to my promise to not check my business emails or my phone and spent the entire day with Birdie. After we took the dog to the park, we brought him back home before heading for ice cream.
Later, we played Scrabble together before I cooked one of the only things I knew how to make for dinner: spaghetti and meatballs. Normally, we did takeout. It was certainly ironic that the owner of one of the best Italian restaurants in the tristate area couldn’t cook for shit.
Birdie and I ate together, then sat down and watched a movie, Matilda. I’d remembered Amanda saying that she thought Birdie might enjoy it someday. It was strange that I’d remembered that film randomly today, as if my dead wife had whispered the title in my ear as I was perusing the movie selections online. Jesus. Now I was starting to sound like my daughter.
Anyway, every time Birdie smiled or laughed at parts of the film, it both warmed me and cut like a knife. I’d debated whether to tell her that her mom had suggested the movie but ultimately didn’t want to make her sad tonight. She seemed off today overall, and I couldn’t help but think it had to do with what Sadie mentioned, that Birdie still blamed herself for Sadie’s absence. Guilt was a bastard, and when you keep it inside, it festers. It’s bad enough when it’s warranted, but in this case, it was a complete waste of my poor little girl’s time and energy.
After Birdie went to sleep that night, I lay in bed, trying to decide whether I should respond to Sadie’s email.
The problem was that I didn’t know what I wanted to say to her. A part of me was tempted to give her a piece of my mind for manipulating my daughter with trickery. But a bigger part of me knew that was bullshit. It hadn’t been her intent to hurt Birdie. It just made me angry that a stranger playing the role of something that doesn’t exist was able to make Birdie happy in a way that I couldn’t. And while Sadie’s lying was in poor taste, to me that wasn’t the issue.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I responded to that damn email. So, without overthinking it, I pulled up her message and hit “Reply.”
Dear Sadie,
I appreciate you taking the time to explain everything to me. To say that I was shocked to hear the extent to which you had been interacting with my daughter—albeit from afar—is an understatement.
And while I don’t fully understand the reasoning behind your decision to let me assume you were the dog trainer, I no longer believe that you intended any malice. So let’s just forget about the latter.
The fact of the matter is, your unexplained absence has put my daughter in some kind of funk. I don’t even care whether or not the damn dog can jump over your back or whether he sits or humps a turtle. I just want to see my daughter happy. And it’s apparent that your being here, even for that brief time, made her happy, as she’d found someone she could relate to. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. In fact, I may need to get my head checked . . . but would you consider coming back a few more times to “train” Marmaduke? That way you could plan your eventual exit more gently than the one I forced upon you. We could tell Birdie that you just had to take some time off and that you’ve returned to finish the job.
I realize that perhaps the crazy has rubbed off on me a bit with this suggestion. I will certainly understand if you don’t wish to return, especially after the way I kicked you out. But hopefully, you understand why I did it, given what I was led to believe at the time. In any case, I’m sorry for being so harsh and for not allowing you a moment to explain.
Let me know if you’d be willing to take me up on my offer. I’d pay you double or triple for your time. You’d basically have to do nothing more than keep Marmaduke alive. Given that you’ve saved his life once already, I trust you can handle that. (That was my best attempt at making light of things and moving forward.)
Sincerely,
Sebastian Maxwell
