“They know, precious girl,” he assures her, smiling at her fleeting innocence. “They know.”
Then, Alex looks up at the sky, squinting as if he expects what comes next. As if he’s commanded it in some way. From above, a cascade of spectacular butterflies comes pouring through an opening in the ceiling, a river of iridescence floating right down to Alex and Andrea. Nothing stops them, all these pulsating, beating wings, descending from the sky overhead.
Alex sees me and waves, smiling broad as life, his strong hand clasping Andrea’s shoulder.
“Daddy!” she cries out loud, reaching with both hands toward the butterflies. But he seems oblivious, keeps waving at me, smiling. Again Andrea cries out, and this time her voice surprises me in its despair: she’s forgotten the butterflies and instead focuses on him, hopping beside him, hungry for him to notice her.
Then again, even more plaintive, “Daddy!”
Abruptly I wake to find the covers tangled around my legs and Andie wedged beside me beneath the covers. She must’ve walked here in her sleep—either that, or made her way silently while I slept on, oblivious. Her small frame has formed against my much bigger one, and she’s tucked up against my ribs like a warm, lumpy pillow. Over and over in her sleep she’s moaning, “Daddy…Daddy.”
“Sweet pea, wake up.” Slipping a tentative hand onto her back, I nudge her. “You’re dreaming.” She doesn’t move, only cries out again, and it seems nothing will rouse her. I keep at it, becoming more insistent, and finally she jerks awake, staring up at me in the darkness.
“You’re okay,” I assure her, remembering Weinberger’s strategies for coping with these nightmares. “I’m right here. You’re okay.”
“I’m scared,” she mumbles, blinking back the sleep, her delicate mouth turning downward in a disturbed expression.
“You’re right here with me,” I promise, nestling down in bed again and pulling her close. “You’re okay. Nothing to be scared of.”
For a while, we’re silent except for the soft sound of her childlike breathing, until she whispers, “The accident was scary.”
I sort through a strategy. “But that’s just a dream now, precious. You know that. You understand the difference.”
“But it could happen again, though. What if it happens again?” She looks up at me with a lost expression, beseeching me to be more than mortal. Less vulnerable than her other daddy proved to be. I can’t promise that I won’t die: it’s not a promise that’s mine to give.
“I’m right here,” I whisper back, willing her to feel reassured. “I am not going anywhere.”
Nuzzling close, she exhales, a drained kind of sigh, and without another word she drifts back into sleep. But not me. For hours it seems I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to my daughter’s downy-headed sleep sounds, praying that God will always protect me. Until the first purple light cracks the sky, I beg the One in whom I barely believe to keep me safe and alive and whole for the sake of this one precious girl who needs me so much.
I beg Him to help me believe like Alex did—at least just a little.
***
I wake to find the covers peeled back and Andrea gone. From the kitchen, I hear cheery-voiced laughter and giggling. The nightmare’s forgotten, left in the flotsam of darkness, and now she’s back in the embrace of Laurel’s tender care. Good. For once I actually welcome it because Andie needs a mother in her life. Not that I want it to be Laurel, of course, but if she can get some nurturing from her aunt, then I think that’s a good thing. Especially after last night.
I wonder how often she dreams about the accident? I thought that ended a while ago, but from what she said in the middle of the night, I’ve gotten to wondering. Maybe Rebecca was right, maybe I shouldn’t spend so much time fighting Laurel. I think of the painting she left on the bed, our conversation in the guest room yesterday: maybe I can trust her, like she wants me to believe.
Wandering into the living room, I discover Andie and Laurel on the floor, pasting together a collage. When Andrea spies me, she leaps to her feet, hiding the work behind her back. “Don’t look!” she cries and I frown, confused until she explains with a grin, “It’s a surprise, Michael.”
“Oh, I see.” I touch the top of her auburn head, giving it a love pat. “A surprise.”
“It was Aunt Laurel’s idea.”
Laurel won’t meet my gaze, and I guess she’s uncomfortable about last night. Strange, but I’ve woken feeling different this morning, a little more ready to let her back in.
They go back to their collage, and I head to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. “You know,” I call to them across the bar, into the living room where they’re spread on the floor, “I was thinking about phoning into work. My boss said if I wanted, I could take today off since I’ve got… family here.”