Hold on My Heart (8 page)

And the fact that it annoyed him annoyed him even more.

When Tom sat down in Dr. Brandt’s office a few hours later, that annoyance was still there. Right on the surface.

“You seem a little distracted today, Tom. Are you uncomfortable being here without Rachel?”

He rubbed his chin with one hand. “No. It just seems a little pointless for you and me to talk. These sessions are for her.”

Dr. Brandt smiled her Mona Lisa smile. “These sessions are for both of you. No one grieves in a vacuum, and it’s helpful for us to talk one-on-one occasionally. So let’s start with whatever is on your mind today, shall we?”

He looked out the window. It was still warm, but some of the leaves had started to turn. Autumn was usually his favorite time of year. But the holidays would be here soon. He’d face his second Christmas without Connie, and probably without Rachel. Last year he’d hidden inside a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and had paid for that with a hangover until January.

“There is this woman at work and she irritates me.” He blurted out the words and wanted them back in an instant. But there were no take-backs in this office.

“Irritates you in what way?”

“I don’t know, exactly. She’s just… always
there
. Always wants to chat. And she wears these little T-shirts with cartoon characters on the front, so I constantly catch myself looking at her chest. It annoys me.”

“Why does that annoy you?”

“Because I’m supposed to be working, not staring at her breasts all day. Her shirts are too tight. No offense, Dr. Brandt. I’m all for women’s equality, but there’s a reason why women shouldn’t work construction.”

Her smile seemed genuine for the first time ever. “All women, Tom, or just this woman?”

Tom pondered this a moment. He’d actually known plenty of women who could do his job, but those were sensible women who knew to wear steel-toed shoes. And long pants. He looked out the window at the park next to Dr. Brandt’s office.

Smiling mothers sat on wooden benches and sipped coffee from paper cups, or pushed happy children on swings. The scene was idyllic, but it left him empty.

“Maybe just this woman.”

“Are you attracted to her?”

His stare returned to Dr. Brandt. “Why would you ask me that? I just told you she annoys me.”

She raised a brow a fraction of an inch, as if preparing to explain some significant revelation.

Before she could say anything, Tom shook his head. “You know what? Never mind about Libby. Could we get back to Rachel, please?”

The fake smile was back. Dr. Brandt would make a very good mannequin with that blank look. “In order to help Rachel, I need to know where you are in your grieving process, too. So, let’s stick with this Libby a little longer. Have you dated anyone since Connie died?”

He blinked from the strike of her question and became acutely aware of how his chest could feel hollow and yet full of cement at the same time. It was a sensation he’d lived with since the day they’d put his wife in the ground. He took a slug of water from the glass sitting on the table next to him, but it did nothing to ease the dryness in his throat.

“I don’t want to date this woman, Dr. Brandt. You’re misunderstanding me. I’m annoyed because she dresses inappropriately for a job site and she’s going to get hurt. And since I’m the only one on this project who knows a hammer from a hole in my ass, I’m responsible for keeping people safe. Let’s move on.”

Dr. Brandt folded her hands in her lap and regarded him as if he were an abstract painting at a gallery. “Let’s talk about your goals again. What is it you want to change about your relationship with Rachel?”

The heaviness in his lungs lightened by an ounce. “I want to be a good father so she’ll move back in with me.”

Her head tilted to the left. “What does a good father look like? How does he behave?”

He wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but it seemed like the answer was obvious. “A good father is dependable. Trustworthy. Patient. Protective. I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to describe what kind of relationship you want with your daughter.”

“The normal kind, where she trusts me to take care of her.”

“That’s the second time you’ve used the word
trust
. Do you think Rachel doesn’t trust you?”

The cement in his lungs expanded and cracked. “I know she doesn’t. After the accident, when she needed me the most, I wasn’t there.”

“Where were you?”

It was always so goddamned stuffy in this office. He tugged at his collar, but it didn’t cool him down any.

“Well, I was in the hospital for nearly four weeks. I missed Connie’s funeral because of that. But even when I came home, I was still… pretty fucked up.”

She adjusted her glasses. “Define ‘pretty fucked up’ in your terms.”

He kept his voice level though it felt as if the room might be tipping. “I’m pretty sure it means the same thing in my terms as it does in yours, Dr. Brandt. I spent about three months washing down painkillers with whiskey and trying to pretend Connie hadn’t died. By the time I got myself together, Rachel was settled in with her grandparents, and all three of them were convinced I was unfit as a parent. That’s why they’ve convinced Rachel she’s better off staying with them.”

“Is she?”

That was an arrow dead center in his chest. It stole his breath even though it was a question he asked himself daily. “Do
you
think she is?” he finally asked.

Dr. Brandt’s long pause filled his veins with ice.

“No, Tom, I think she’d be better off living with you. You are her father, and you’re not unfit, but the fact that you’re uncertain is something we need to work on. It’s natural for Connie’s parents to want to fill the void left by their daughter’s death, but they shouldn’t try to fill it with Rachel. And you shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting your daughter back.”

He looked out the window again at the happy mommies at the park, bouncing their fat, smiling babies on their laps. Rachel had been a fat baby. A fat, happy baby. “I should have insisted she come home. But she’d started school for the year, and if she came to live with me she’d have to transfer.” His lungs felt full of ice water. “It felt selfish of me to make her go through another big change. Especially since this entire mess was my fault to begin with.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Connie would be alive if it weren’t for me.”

“That’s a pretty emotional answer. Is that what you believe intellectually? That Connie’s death was somehow your fault?”

“It was entirely my fault. I was driving.”

“Have you been in other accidents?”

“No.”

“So, would you say you are typically a cautious driver?”

A sour taste sprang up in the back of his throat. He hated talking about the accident, hated reliving it. It was such a waste of time.

“Look, I get what you’re trying to do here. And I appreciate it. I understand it was an accident, but if I’d had control of the car, Connie would still be here and Rachel would still have her mother.”

Dr. Brandt leaned forward. “And you wouldn’t be left all alone, and feeling guilty for staring at an attractive woman’s breasts.”

A vision of Libby sitting on the floor of the ice-cream parlor earlier that day popped into his head. She’d had cupcakes on her T-shirt. Little pink and purple sparkly cupcakes dancing right across her breasts. And all he could think of, every time he looked at her during the whole damn day, was licking off the frosting.

“Maybe.”

Dr. Brandt leaned back again and crossed her arms. “Would it help if I said what you’re feeling is normal and appropriate?”

“Not really.”

“Well, it is. In a way, you take comfort in believing that you caused the accident, because then you have someone to blame. We all like to think we have some control over our destinies, so random events can be distressing. But now you need to decide. You can choose to stay stuck in this moment, live inside that fear and regret, and keep Rachel there with you, or you can be a mature adult, and a good father, by teaching her it’s not the obstacles in our life that define us. It’s the grace we display when overcoming them.”

He didn’t like Dr. Brandt very much in that moment. He couldn’t tell if she was absolving him of guilt or calling him immature. Or both.

He looked once more into the park. The mommies were loading up their children into strollers. It was time to go home.

“I’m not sure how to do what you’re asking,” he finally said.

“I know,” she said, smiling. “But I think you’re ready to figure it out.”

“T
here is no way in hell I’m going to wear this, Marti. It’s heavy and it stinks.” Libby pulled at the garnet-colored velvet currently trussed around her midsection as she stood on a wobbly stool in the middle of A Royale Affaire Costume Shoppe and Medieval Armory wearing her little sister’s farcical idea of a bridesmaid dress.

“And it’s ridiculous,” Ginny added from her spot on a tapestry-covered chair.

“I thought we were going to lunch,” Nana said from her spot on the green velvet love seat. She was trying to button her cardigan sweater, which she wore in spite of the broiling temperature inside the cramped, tiny store.

Libby’s mother reached over and fixed the button. “We are going out to lunch, Nana, but first we have to look at these dresses for Marti’s… wedding.” Libby could see her mother having to push out that last word. Her parents were still not in favor of this impending marriage, but there wasn’t much they could do to stop it. Marti was a consenting adult, after all.

By legal standards, anyway.

A tall, reed-thin saleswoman with a tight black bun tugged brusquely on the laces in the back of Libby’s dress, nearly knocking her off the stool. The threat was implied:
Stop complaining, or I’ll hurt you.

“Oh, relax, Libby. This is just a sample,” Marti assured her. “The one you buy will be custom-made so it will only stink if you sweat it up.”

“How can I not sweat it up? I’m hauling around two hundred yards of theater curtain. I’m wearing upholstery.” She tried to lift the skirt as the salesclerk glowered.

Marti glowered, too. “Look, I already agreed to postpone my wedding until December so I can finish this semester
and
wait for Ginny to have her baby. I have been very accommodating. So stop bitching about the fact that I’m having a Renaissance-themed wedding, okay? If you don’t want to be in it, then fine, don’t be in it.” Marti crossed her arms and all but stuck out her bottom lip.

“I don’t want to be in it,” Ginny said.

Marti’s pout turned to crestfallen sadness as she turned from Libby to their older sister. “You can’t mean that, Ginny. I was in
your
wedding.”

“In my normal, traditional wedding where you got to wear a gorgeous chiffon dress.”

“Gorgeous chiffon? Is that what you call it? I looked like a giant walking daffodil.”

Libby nodded. “We looked like lemon meringue pies. But at least those dresses didn’t weigh seven hundred pounds.”

“I make excellent lemon meringue pies,” said Nana. “But peach pie is my specialty. Your pies aren’t very good, Beverly. In thirty years you never have made a decent crust.”

Libby’s mother leaned slightly away from Nana, trying to create space between them on the tiny sofa.

“My pies will never be as good as yours, Nana. Everyone knows that,” Beverly answered mechanically, although that was obviously not the response going through her mind. When it came to Nana Hamilton, it was always best to agree.

Libby’s sisters continued frowning at each other.

“My wedding was beautiful and elegant, and you looked lovely in that yellow dress,” Ginny said, flipping her red-gold hair over her shoulder.

“Well, I think Libby looks lovely in this dress. And so will—” Marti paused and bit her lip. “Oh, I get it. I’m so sorry, Ginny. But don’t worry. You’ll lose that baby weight.”

“What?” Ginny gasped.

Libby bit back a chuckle.

“You think that’s why I’m objecting?” Ginny sputtered.

Marti leaned over from her seat on the other side of Nana and patted her sister’s hand. “I know you’re worried about getting your ass back up where it’s supposed to be, but you will. And besides, no one’s going to be looking at you anyway. They’ll all be looking at me because I’m the bride.”