Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“Oh yes, they’re in room number three. Let me take you there.” The receptionist guides me down the hall, the sharp scent of bleach and the bite of latex gloves brings back more memories. Before we moved, Karen would often take Peyton to doctor’s appointments. Those I could handle better, the office a slightly less sterile place.
But this feels different, likely because it’s an emergency clinic.
The receptionist knocks on the door and peeks her head in before ushering me inside. Peyton bursts into tears as soon as she sees me and throws her arms around my neck when I get close enough, telling me she’s sorry. I don’t understand why she would apologize for getting hurt, but I console her as best I can and pat her back, kissing the top of her head and grounding myself in the knowledge that she’s safe and okay and nothing truly bad has happened to her.
This is all fixable.
The doctor comes in and checks her ankle, then sends us to the X-ray clinic to make sure there isn’t a hairline fracture. It turns out to be a bad sprain, which unfortunately means she’s going to need crutches for at least a week, if not longer, depending on how she heals. It’s not ideal, considering she has a major role in the holiday performance. Hopefully they can adjust as needed and make it work.
Harley is beside herself, chewing nervously on her bottom lip as I carry Peyton out to my SUV. I get Peyton into the back seat and Harley puts the crutches in the trunk.
“Should I stop and pick up a treat for Peyton? Maybe something from Sweet Sensations?” she asks softly, wide concerned eyes lifting to meet mine.
I look to the side, unable to handle her remorse. I feel like I’m on the edge, and I don’t know how I got here. “Yeah, sure. That would be great.”
“Okay.” She nods once. “I’ll meet you back at your place?”
“Yeah. That works.” I turn away, but she grabs my wrist.
“I’m sorry, Gavin. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I know. I’ll see you back at my place. I just want to get her home and comfortable.”
“Okay.” She releases my wrist, and I round the hood of the car, slipping into the driver’s seat.
Peyton sniffles from the back seat. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to get hurt.”
“You don’t have to apologize, sweetie. You didn’t do anything wrong. Accidents happen.” I offer her a smile in the rearview mirror, then keep my hands at ten and two while I drive us home.
Harley arrives twenty minutes later with takeout from the Pasta Bar and a treat for Peyton from Sweet Sensations. The stress of the afternoon has gotten to Peyton, and the pain medication has set in, making her groggy and her tummy feels off. She has two bites of dinner and then asks to go to bed.
I leave Harley in the kitchen and help Peyton get ready for bed. I don’t even make her brush her teeth, and I only get about halfway through her bedtime story before she’s out cold.
Even still, I lie there for several minutes, watching her chest rise and fall. Thinking about what could have happened. If she’d fallen and hit her head. If she’d broken something. Because of someone else’s carelessness. Because Harley wasn’t watching her closely enough. If it had been worse, then what would I have done?
I push down the memories of what happened with Marcie, struggling to keep them locked down. I know it’s not the same thing, but it feels a lot like it is, and I don’t know how to process it all.
Eventually I slip out of Peyton’s bed, kiss her on the forehead, and leave her bedroom, closing the door behind me. Harley is sitting in the living room on the couch, her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed on the blank TV screen. Her head lifts when I cross the threshold. “How is Peyton? Can I go in and give her a kiss good night?”
“She’s already asleep.”
“Oh. Did she go down okay? You were in there for a long time.”
“She was fine.” I cross the room and grab the back of the chair. “What the hell happened? Why weren’t you watching her?”
Harley’s eyes flare. “I was watching her.”
“Obviously not closely enough if she fell! What was she playing on? How did that even happen?” I can hear the panic and accusation in my voice, but I feel powerless to moderate it.
“She was on the climber. I was messaging you. I was distracted for all of a minute.”
“You let her go on the climber?” I motion to the window, where flakes swirl around in the dark night air and create a fine white blanket on the ground. “It was snowing and wet!”
“I didn’t let her do anything. She was on the slides. I was messaging you about dinner, and when I looked up, I realized she wasn’t on the slides anymore and that she’d moved to the climber.”