kitchen window wakes me up. Or is it the sound of Jeff’s voice as he explains his new fastball technique to Evan?
Maybe it’s because Trisha is gently stroking my cheek and whispering in my ear: “Dad says it’s okay for us to have pie for breakfast, but only if you say so too. Can we, please? Pretty please?”
I nod, but then immediately wince to find Aunt Phyllis brewing—make that burning—the coffee, while Mary cuts the pie into generous wedges.
Oh, my goodness! I guess I burned it—
No, it’s a perfect golden brown.
But, where is Jack?
Before I can turn around to find him, I feel his arm around my shoulder, and then his lips on my cheek.
Instinctively, my mouth turns to his. Our kiss is gentle but lingering. When we draw away, we find our children scrutinizing us. There are shy smiles on their faces and joy in their eyes.
My hand beckons them to us for a group hug.
In no time, I am enveloped in their loving arms.
They’ve missed me—and not just because of my pie. But my having baked one makes this homecoming so much sweeter.
“Mommy, while you were gone I had a very bad dream,” Trisha’s dire declaration is mumbled through a mouthful of pie.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, as I try not to gag while gulping down the last of Phyllis’s bitter brew. Instead, I lean into my aunt, who sits beside me—my way of reassuring her that I appreciate all she does for Jack and me while we’re away.
Phyllis pats my arm appreciatively. “Our baby screamed the last three nights in a row! I offered to climb into bed with her, but she wanted to be a big girl and tough it out.”
Trisha nods, but when Aunt Phyllis gets up and goes to the counter for yet another cup of coffee, she cups her hand to my ear and whispers, “Really, it’s because Aunt Phyllis snores. Mommy, can you come sleep with me instead?”
“If you want, yes, of course,” I promise. “Honey, would you like to talk about it?”
“I asked her that too, but Trisha wanted to wait until you came home,” Mary squeezes her little sister’s hand.
“Well, your dad and I are here now,” I say, hoping my smile encourages her.
Trisha blushes. “Daddy may be mad when he hears about it.”
Jack shakes his head. “I could never be mad at you, sweet pea. Ever .” He crosses his heart to make his point.
Trisha nods slowly, but her lip quivers. “Okay…” She sighs. “It’s the same dream all the time, only it doesn’t seem like a dream because it’s so real ! In it, my other daddy—the bad one—is in the room with me.”
Everyone’s fork freezes in mid-air.
Mary frowns. As the oldest of my children, her memories of her biological father took longer to fade during his five-year absence from their young lives. When Carl resurfaced, she had the hardest time reconciling his desertion with her adoration of Jack. Carl’s terrorist acts may have given her yet another excuse to hate him, but he was still her father.
Trisha’s nightmares are yet one more reminder of how Carl tore our family apart.
On the other hand, Jeff leans in, fascinated. His way of dealing with his own close call with terrorism is to approach it dispassionately, and to research it methodically.
Would it be better if his sisters took the same approach? It’s hard to say. Each of us has processed the same trauma in our own way.
My solution was to become an assassin. Literally, I killed the cause of our distress. But I would not want my children to have taken that path.
Apparently, Trisha’s is to dream about the father she never knew. Will talking about it make what few memories she has about him fade? Perhaps, which is why I ask: “What happens in your dream?”
“He stands at the foot of my bed, and tells me how much he loves us all and misses us, and how he wishes he’d never left us, especially since he missed me being born.” She wipes away a tear. “The first night he came, I told him that we aren’t mad
Maybe it’s because Trisha is gently stroking my cheek and whispering in my ear: “Dad says it’s okay for us to have pie for breakfast, but only if you say so too. Can we, please? Pretty please?”
I nod, but then immediately wince to find Aunt Phyllis brewing—make that burning—the coffee, while Mary cuts the pie into generous wedges.
Oh, my goodness! I guess I burned it—
No, it’s a perfect golden brown.
But, where is Jack?
Before I can turn around to find him, I feel his arm around my shoulder, and then his lips on my cheek.
Instinctively, my mouth turns to his. Our kiss is gentle but lingering. When we draw away, we find our children scrutinizing us. There are shy smiles on their faces and joy in their eyes.
My hand beckons them to us for a group hug.
In no time, I am enveloped in their loving arms.
They’ve missed me—and not just because of my pie. But my having baked one makes this homecoming so much sweeter.
“Mommy, while you were gone I had a very bad dream,” Trisha’s dire declaration is mumbled through a mouthful of pie.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, as I try not to gag while gulping down the last of Phyllis’s bitter brew. Instead, I lean into my aunt, who sits beside me—my way of reassuring her that I appreciate all she does for Jack and me while we’re away.
Phyllis pats my arm appreciatively. “Our baby screamed the last three nights in a row! I offered to climb into bed with her, but she wanted to be a big girl and tough it out.”
Trisha nods, but when Aunt Phyllis gets up and goes to the counter for yet another cup of coffee, she cups her hand to my ear and whispers, “Really, it’s because Aunt Phyllis snores. Mommy, can you come sleep with me instead?”
“If you want, yes, of course,” I promise. “Honey, would you like to talk about it?”
“I asked her that too, but Trisha wanted to wait until you came home,” Mary squeezes her little sister’s hand.
“Well, your dad and I are here now,” I say, hoping my smile encourages her.
Trisha blushes. “Daddy may be mad when he hears about it.”
Jack shakes his head. “I could never be mad at you, sweet pea. Ever .” He crosses his heart to make his point.
Trisha nods slowly, but her lip quivers. “Okay…” She sighs. “It’s the same dream all the time, only it doesn’t seem like a dream because it’s so real ! In it, my other daddy—the bad one—is in the room with me.”
Everyone’s fork freezes in mid-air.
Mary frowns. As the oldest of my children, her memories of her biological father took longer to fade during his five-year absence from their young lives. When Carl resurfaced, she had the hardest time reconciling his desertion with her adoration of Jack. Carl’s terrorist acts may have given her yet another excuse to hate him, but he was still her father.
Trisha’s nightmares are yet one more reminder of how Carl tore our family apart.
On the other hand, Jeff leans in, fascinated. His way of dealing with his own close call with terrorism is to approach it dispassionately, and to research it methodically.
Would it be better if his sisters took the same approach? It’s hard to say. Each of us has processed the same trauma in our own way.
My solution was to become an assassin. Literally, I killed the cause of our distress. But I would not want my children to have taken that path.
Apparently, Trisha’s is to dream about the father she never knew. Will talking about it make what few memories she has about him fade? Perhaps, which is why I ask: “What happens in your dream?”
“He stands at the foot of my bed, and tells me how much he loves us all and misses us, and how he wishes he’d never left us, especially since he missed me being born.” She wipes away a tear. “The first night he came, I told him that we aren’t mad
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