When I finish with her hair, I hand her the brush. She hops from the bed, then with a quick glance my way, slips out of her nightgown and Barbie panties, her small little-girl body naked before me. Reaching into her suitcase, she retrieves her bathing suit, wiggling into it. She stands in front of the large windows, staring out at the ocean like she’s gathering her nerve.
Then pivoting slowly toward me, she announces in a hushed voice, “This is it.” She takes her index finger and points to a longish silver line on her upper thigh, tapping it significantly. “This is my scar.”
Mentally, I scroll through my options. I could tell her that it’s nothing, hardly noticeable at all—which would be the truth. Or I could say that I’m sorry; after all, she’s haunted by the same demons that are so familiar to me. But staring into her trusting blue eyes, neither choice seems right.
“Come closer,” I encourage her. “So I can see.”
Beside the bed, she stands so that I’m nearly eye-level with it. Her scar’s different from mine, pale against her freckled skin. Like someone zigzagged along her leg with a silver-tipped felt marker.
Scowling, she touches it with her small finger. “They couldn’t get me out of the car,” she explains in a solemn voice. “That’s how I got it.”
“I’m sure that was very painful.”
She shrugs but remains silent, eyes downcast.
An inspiration comes to me, one that I’m uncertain about. “Andrea, sweetheart,” I begin tentatively, touching her on the arm, “I have a thought.” She glances up, meeting my gaze. “You want me to tell you what it is?”
“Sure.” Her eyebrows furrow with sharp concentration.
“I know your scar makes you sad. That it makes you think of unhappy things, like your accident,” I say. “And your daddy’s death.”
She nods her silent agreement, still listening. Once I’m sure I haven’t pushed her away, I continue. “Well, what if we had a plan? What if we decided your scar would remind you of his life?”
Her expression becomes troubled. “But I got it in the accident.”
“I know, but it could remind you of the good stuff,” I say. “You could touch it, and think of your daddy, even though he’s far away.”
She runs her thumb over the scar, tracing the length of it. “It used to hurt. But then that stopped,” she tells me. “I didn’t want it to stop. I liked to feel it.” I recall her words that day at Mona’s: Mine feels like nothing. My own scars are always itching and aching, causing terrible complications, yet I have an idea of what she’s trying to say.
“When it hurt, it felt real.”
She nods. “Daddy still felt real.”
“That’s why maybe using your scar to remember him is a good thing,” I reply, lifting my fingers to her cheek. She lets me stroke her face, closing her eyes. “Better than feeling the pain. He’s always with you this way.”
A slow smile spreads across her face, until her dimples appear and her eyes open again. “Oh, he’s always with me,” she answers with a determined nod. “I know that. He told me so in a dream. But don’t tell Michael,” she rushes to add, leaning closer. “It upsets him when I dream about Daddy.”
I drop my hand away, curious. “Why would it upset him?”
“’Cause I think Michael wishes he’d get a dream too,” she explains, biting her lower lip. “I heard him say something to Aunt Marti about it once.”
Do you still dream? That very first question we posed to one another. He turned from me then, troubled. At the time I thought it was just his happily-ever-after that was no longer intact. Now I’m thinking it might have been the literal dreams, too.
“Dreams are important,” I half-whisper. Andie looks up at me.
“You dream,” she observes. “You dream a lot, don’t you, Rebecca?”
I give an intentionally opaque answer. “Sometimes.” All of the nightmares, the ones that won’t entirely go away, they’ve abated these past two months since Michael and Andrea came into my life. But she doesn’t need to know all that.
“I dreamed about Daddy last night,” she continues in a quiet voice. “That he was talking to me. He does that sometimes, tells me stuff I should know and all.” She grows serious, focused. “That’s how come I want to go surfing now. ’Cause he told me I should.”
“He did?”
She settles on the bed, staring into my eyes. “He told me to surf again—” she pauses, getting a mischievous smile, “—because of you, Rebecca.”
“Me?” My eyes widen in disbelief.
“Daddy told me it wasn’t just for Michael,” she explains. “He said you need surfing too.”
***
I’ve been riding my surfboard on my stomach for what seems hours, to the point that I feel worn out. Not Michael, though. He grins from ear to ear, riding sluggish little waves and showing off like a teenager performing for the Y-camp girls on the other side of the lake. He showboats, walking out the length of his board—something they explained is part of longboarding style. Casey floats on his own board beside me, coaching me.