Day Eight: The Airport

I need to stawp.

But I can't.

... Guess what I'm going to write about today.

If you guessed Firefly fan fiction, you. Well.

Okay. Yeah. I did actually write some Firefly fan fiction today.

But mostly I just wrote about Bird again.

My name is Robert Fontana, and I am addicted to my daughter's laugh.

This is the point where you mumble, "Hi, Robert," in monotone unison, and then I launch into my story and you pretend to be listening.

But I hope you'll actually listen this time. Because Bird is the most astounding little girl you will ever meet, and you should listen.

I've been traveling a lot lately for work. And I can tell you that there is nothing, absolutely nothing I hate more than being away from Bird.

When I first began having to travel for work, I thought about Bird's mother. I had been trying not to think of her for years, but I thought about calling the old number I had for her and seeing if she was sober enough to watch her child for a few days.

But then I remembered that Bird's mother was Elaine, and no matter how much a girl needs interaction with her biological mother, Bird never needed the horror of knowing how her mother truly was.

So I asked Janey if she'd be willing to stay with Bird for a few nights.

And Janey is the most amazing nanny/tutor/superwoman ever to exist, so she was excited to get to be Bird's three-day-parent.

I think about Bird the whole time I'm gone.

I don't know why my office keeps sending me on these trips - I'm ridiculously distracted the whole time and bounce on my toes until I can walk through the airport to the exit and see Bird's face light up when she spots me in the crowd.

That moment she takes off running towards me, her arms up before she even gets to me so I can grab her faster, that moment is better than any drug, or anything else, in the universe.

I don't even notice anyone else is in the airport; it's just Bird and I in that moment as I twirl her around in my arms.

"I didn't miss you at all," she'll say, trying to mimic the sarcasm of Janey she's picked up.

"That's okay," I'll reply. "I missed you enough to make up for it."

Janey always waits for us, patiently giving us our space, standing holding Bird's backpack just smiling at us from a distance.

She's wonderful like that.

But we always make our way over, and she always hugs me and tells me welcome home.

We're an odd pairing, Bird, Janey, and I. But I love this unorthodox little family we've made for ourselves.

Day Seven - Bird's Swing Set

Because I stumbled on a folder on the internet of a bunch of pure adorable photos of fathers and daughters being adorable.

And this is what happens when that happens.


Bird's first day of first grade killed me.

I got out of having to send her kindergarden or preschool. Bird was special, so I got her a nanny-tutor-all-in-one deal.

I don't mean she was slow or special ed or a needs child. She was smart. Quick. Astounding.

She was just not tough.

I hate that I gave her all of my sensitivity, but there it is. I did.

She understood everything was the problem. She understood what it meant to use words hatefully. She understood glances and stares and raised eyebrows.

She took everything, and I mean everything, to heart.

She loved going to the park and swinging. I took her to this park a block from our apartment with a really nice playground and swing set. And then a dejected swing set off to the side.

We like the dejected swing set.

Or rather Bird does.

There's only one swing left there that is swingable. But Bird adores that swing. She named it Frederico.

I don't know where she comes up with these things.

I once asked her pediatrician if I should be worried that her best friend is a swing named Frederico, and the pediatrician stared at me for a good ten seconds before finally blinking and saying, "It'll pass. I think."

So we would go see Frederico almost daily.

One day while she was swinging and talking away to Frederico and I was reading the latest Nicholas Spark book - the dejected swing set is also a judgement free zone - we both looked up at the sound of an utterly pitiful meow.

Turns out a cat that was already half dead was being attacked by a group of birds. I've never seen my Bird scream and shout and kick like that. She nearly killed those birds.

She insisted we take the cat home and bring it back to real life. I told her it could only be for a few nights because technically pets weren't allowed in our apartment complex.

I don't know who I was kidding; that cat has never left Bird's side. He sleeps on her pillow right next to her head at night. She named him Moccasin.

Her first day of first grade, I thought I would never get her out of the house. She kept insisting she needed to say goodbye to Moccasin one more time.

When we finally got to school, she was holding my hand so tightly my hand was numb after. I guess I had done a pretty bad time of making sure she had actual friends up until that point, so she didn't know how to act seeing other actual children.

She looked up at me when I gave her the speech about how first grade was fun and she would meet so many other kids and it was going to be fun. She looked up at me and her eyes were so wide and there were tears forming in them.

"I'll do it," she whispered. "I'll do it for you, daddy."

My little Bird. The bravest girl in the world.

Day Six: Colin Firth Gets Life

You know when you're a kid, like say six or seven, and you just know that your babysitter is so cool and must have all the answers because they're your babysitter but also because they're an adult?

And then you turn seventeen and you just know that those adults you work with at your after-school job and your parents or mentors or whomever is so wise and must have all the answers because you sure don't but they're real adults?

And then you're about to turn twenty-five and you just know that.

Well.

That no one has all the answers and you realize that you are in fact an adult no matter how much you wish to deny it and apparently it's an adult thing to not know what the crap you're really doing?

And then you realize that if you're an adult, no one can tell you no when you want to eat an entire tub of cookie dough because obviously eating your feelings is an adult trait.

And for those twenty minutes while you eat the entire tub, you think that adulthood's pretty great.

And then you spend the entire night sick as a really sick thing, and in the morning your alarm still goes off at 06:25 and you still have to get up and go to your job and you feel hungover because cookie dough is about as powerful as alcohol, obviously, and you realize that this. This is what adulthood really really looks like.

While we're on the subject of things that adults do, you know that scene in Pride And Prejudice where Colin Firth partially strips and jumps into that nasty, disgusting pond?

All my wannabe British friends are muttering, "Mmmhmmm," in their best homie voice right now.

And everyone else who hasn't seen this adaptation needs to reevalute their lives.

There's a pond that is equally gross looking in the back where I am currently working and today I really, really have to fight this massive urge of doing my best Colin Firth impression and jumping into said pond.

To be honest, I thought about it all day.

Because it seemed so much easier to just take a swim in the pond than deal with my adult problems. Surely my plethora of problems would take a vacation if I pond-jumped.

Right?

I guess it's a good thing I had pen and paper and Ed Sheeran to keep me sane instead of the pond.

Although there's always tomorrow, as a coworker reminded me today. I might jump in tomorrow.

Life sucks sometimes.

I know that one is supposed to keep an optimistic attitude and be nice no matter what's going on inside and all that stuff, but man, sometimes life just sucks and it needs to be socially acceptable just to be able to say that and have it said and then move on.

Life sucks sometimes.

But also, some things make the suck suck just a little bit less.

Sherlock Holmes.

The Sabrina soundtrack.

Watching someone get so tickled they can't stop laughing.

Seeing awe-inducing photography of fathers and their daughters.

Ed Sheeran rapping.

That pond is getting father and father away from my mind the more things I come up with.

Wearing pink on Wednesdays. Side note, which I did. Because on Wednesdays, we wear pink.

Having a cat that seems like she genuinely misses you when you're gone all day.

Lifeguards who make you your own lane in a busy pool.

All right, pond. I won this round, so let's meet again tomorrow and re-evaluate.

Day Five - Mother/Father

So apparently fatherhood has been on my mind lately. 

Children and parenthood have made their way into a lot of conversations lately, which means my mind brings it back up to me when I sit down with a pen. 

I was reminded today through a conversation with a coworker of a book I read once by the brilliant Jim Beaver called Life's That Way about his wife's cancer and his struggle with becoming a single parent which reminded me of a scene I once wrote about a conversation between a little girl and her father while he got her ready for bed because of a picture I once saw. (this, friends, is my brain's trail of thought). 

I scoured my box of notebooks when I got home tonight for said scene, but could find it nowhere. I am determined to find it, though. 

Just not tonight when it close to midnight and I have been ready to curl up in my bed for hours. 

So here's my lunch break written scene. 

I thought I could be better.

But she found someone who was better before I had time to change for her.

Sometimes I’m almost glad she left. Five years of constant worry because she didn’t come home that night, five years of wondering what I could do different to make her happier than when she was with these other men, five years of praying I wouldn’t get a phone call at work that she had crashed her car while driving under an influence – whatever her influence of choice was that day – and was in the hospital or worse, five years of knowing she would never love me the way I loved her. Five years of me being scared.

If it wasn’t for Bird, I could say that I’m relieved I don’t have to be scared anymore.

But I’m still scared.

I’m scared I’m only a “good enough” father. I’m scared I’ll botch this single dad thing up and she’ll grow up to be just like her mother. I’m scared I can’t be father and mother for her.

And if I’m honest, this fear is much worse.

There are moments when the fear is momentarily disarmed and my love for Bird is all I know in the world.

When I can leave work early enough to pick her up and I walk into her kindergarten classroom and she sees me in the doorway and there’s a moment where her face slowly breaks into laughter and she stands up and runs over to me as fast as her little legs can move, shrieking, “Daaaaaaaaaddyyyyyyyy!” the whole way and then she just jumps, knowing I will catch her up into my arms.

In that moment, I don’t really think there is a happier man on earth.

Or when she sits on the floor in front of the telly with me, her little face scrunched up in concentration as she colours something only she can see in her mind and then finishes and tugs on my arm and I look down and see she and I at the park or the beach or the country and there are hearts for clouds and the words “Bird daddy love” across the top and neither of us say anything and I feel tears in my eyes and she kisses my cheek and curls up with her head in my lap and drifts off to sleep while I stroke her hair.

In these moments, I know so desperately that she deserves so much more than me.

But I also know in my core that no one could ever love Bird as much as I do.

Day Four - Rain And Wine Bottles

Apparently Ed Sheeran's X album makes me want to write Supernatural fan fiction about Bobby Singer.

So day four. Supernatural fan fiction. And sappy Supernatural fan fiction at that.

Whatever. It was bound to happen eventually within this challenge.

Without further ado.

This was my decision.

This was my decision.

This was my decision.

Wendy repeated the phrase over and over in her head, pulling her raincoat even tighter around herself.

Raincoat. “More like raincatcher,” Wendy mumbled to herself.

She was soaked through to the bone.

She always thought that was an odd expression, as if rain could get through your skin and into you.

She knew now that the expression was real.

She felt the cold and the wet in her insides, as if the rain was running through her veins in replace of her blood.

This was what miserable looks like.

But it was her decision.

It was her decision.

It didn’t matter how many times Wendy repeated the phrase to herself, she knew that it really wasn’t her decision.

It hadn’t been her decision to feel ostracized in the town from the moment she stepped foot over the city line.

It hadn’t been her decision to have weird things happen to and around her, things she couldn’t explain.

And it hadn’t been her decision to leave the town, not really. She was pushed out of town from their glaring looks and disapproving draws of their breath when she walked in a room and cruel words disguised as politeness.

So Wendy did what it was beginning to feel like she did best – pack up her hiking pack and hitchhike to another town to try all over again.

She slipped in the muddy grass and nearly toppled over, catching herself with the palm of her hands, catching them on the gravel.

She hissed in pain as she picked out the smaller pieces of road from her palms, holding them up to the rain to have the blood washed away.

She was so busy trying to patch herself up she didn’t even notice the old truck pull over to the side of the road next to her.

“You lost?”

Wendy looked up at the sound of a voice and squinted in the rain.

A smiling face.

Now there was something she hadn’t seen in awhile.

“Not yet,” she replied.

The man chuckled. “Where you headed?”

“A coffee shop?” she offered. “Or maybe a cheap hotel if you know of any. Anywhere dry, really.”

“Afraid there’s nothin’ for awhile.”

Wendy cocked her head to the side. She could have sworn the sign awhile back said it was only three miles to the nearest town.

The smiling man seemed to read her mind. “There’s nothin’ in Agumenta ‘cept a post office and a general store. No hotel, that’s for sure. Not till you hit Helasse, which is about another 45 or 50 miles north.”

“Oh.” Wendy felt like crying at his words. He was the first car to pass her in ages, meaning the chances of her hitching a ride to this other town were slim to none.

The man took a breath as if to say something, then hesitated before smiling again. “Get in. I can’t talk to you standin’ there like a wet cat.”

Wendy didn’t even hesitate; she practically ran to the other side of his truck and hopped in.

“Thank you kindly,” she said, slipping the hood of her coat off and ringing out her hair.

“Those look nasty,” the man said, gesturing to her hands.

Wendy offered a weak smile. “Not my finest moment.”

“I have a first aid kit at my cabin.”

Wendy froze.

“Sorry, was that creepy?” the man said quickly. “You just look like maybe you could use a warm meal, and some bandages. And I don’t fancy driving 50 miles to drop you off at some grasshopper-infested motel. My cabin’s about 4 miles east of here.”

Wendy took a deep breath.

This man didn’t look like a serial killer.

But she hadn’t really had much experience with serial killers, so for all she knew, he was.

“I’m Bobby,” he said. “Bobby Singer. I’d offer to shake your hand, but, well.” 

“Wendy Harrelson,” she said, smiling again. She knew she didn’t even know this man from Adam, but for some reason, she liked him.

He smiled at her again, and Wendy felt peaceful. There was something about this man.

“Well, it would keep you outta this rain, leastways for a little bit. I could get you a hot meal, some dry clothes, fix up your hands, then at least drive you back into town. There’s a truck stop in between us and Helasse, maybe 15 or so miles away. I could drop you off after that, ‘n you could try your luck with a trucker.”

Wendy smiled again. “That would be great, Bobby.”

                                *                    *                      *

She knew she should be leaving.

Maybe she shouldn’t have even accepted the offer to get warm and eat at his cabin.  

But she had still been cold. And a warm meal and a hot shower had sounded too good to pass up. Even from a stranger.

So she had agreed, trying not to answer his casual questions too awkwardly on the drive to his cabin. It was mostly just chit chat, and Wendy was grateful for that. It meant she didn’t have to think too hard about her answers.

When they got to his cabin, he had taken her to an upstairs bedroom, directing her to the bathroom.

“Water gets hot after about two minutes,” he said before leaving her alone.

She had stayed in the shower until nearly all the hot water was gone, then stepped into dry clothes before following her nose to the kitchen, where Bobby was scooping out the most delicious looking stew Wendy had ever seen.

“My specialty,” he said with a grin, handing her a bowl and spoon.

Wendy scarfed down the first bowl, and the one after it, and the one after that.

Bobby had just sat smiling at her, chuckling a little as she ate with conviction.

After dinner, he had sat her down on his back screened in porch with a first-aid kit and bandaged up her hands, talking to her the whole time.

He wasn’t shy, she had to give him that. He talked about how he moved out to the cabin seven years ago after his wife died, how he missed his basically adopted boys Dean and Sam who only called him these days when they needed help with their job.

“What do they do?”

Bobby had stiffened a little at the question, then answered, “Hunters. Professional,” in a somewhat gruff voice.

Wendy was quiet after that, but shortly after, Bobby opened her up and got her talking.

She wasn’t sure how he managed to do it, but somehow he got her talking so she couldn’t seem to shut up.

She told him all about the last town, about how cruel people could be to her, about how she sometimes felt like she’d never find a place where she fit in.

After what felt like hours, she sat back on his porch swing, realizing she hadn’t talked that much probably in years.

“I guess I should get going,” she said, starting to stand up.

“You don’t have to.”

Bobby said this so quietly she wasn’t even sure if he had actually said it.

“What?”

“I mean,” Bobby began quickly, as if realizing he probably sounded like a creeper, “it’s still raining out there, even if it has let up. And I have an extra bedroom. And it just seems silly to kick you out in the rain like a stray cat or somethin’. I don’t mind if you stay. The night.”

Wendy found herself smiling. She shouldn’t be, she should grab her back, shake his hand, say something like, “It was nice to meet you,” and head out the door running.

Instead, she found herself smiling and saying, “That would be nice.”

        *                                      *                                   *

“So the extra blankets are in the closet on the top shelf. And there’re clean sheets on the bed, just changed ‘em last week and no one’s slept in there in awhile anyways. Oh and uh, if you need anything else, my room’s downstairs and down the hall.”

Bobby stood awkwardly at the door, seeming too embarrassed to actually step into the room with her.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Wendy started. “Really. You, you’re far too nice to let me stay like this. I mean, you don’t know me from Adam.”

“What you talking about, I’ve known you for a whole three hours,” Bobby said, trying to play it off as a joke but Wendy swallowed at the realization that he was exactly right.

“I’ll let you get comfy,” Bobby said after another awkward minute. “You’re probably tired.”

Wendy watched Bobby turn and start to walk down the stairs. “Hey, Bobby?” she said, her hands on the doorway.

Bobby turned and looked at her, a worried, stressed look on his face, as if she was about to call him out for the creep he felt like he was being.

“How do you feel about Scrabble?”

                                     *                                      *                                   *

Wendy opened her eyes slowly, enjoying the sound of rain hitting the window. She sat up dramatically and looked around the room, feeling confused. Then everything came back – the ride, dinner, Scrabble.

Bobby.

Wendy curled back down in the bed, pulling the blankets up tight around her.

Bobby.

She had found herself flirting with him like crazy during their weird game of Scrabble last night, watching him try to figure out his next move of words.

He wasn’t exactly what she would call hot stuff. His hair needed cutting and his clothes could use a wash and his body could probably use a few less beers.

But there was something about him, something that drew her in and made her want to be near him. Made her want to not leave him.

They played their stupid game well into the night, finally forgetting the game and ended up with a bottle of wine empty and too many words or maybe not enough words said between them.

But Bobby didn’t seem to mind. And Wendy didn’t either.

She had finally dragged herself away from him reluctantly to go to sleep.

But she already missed him.

She laughed at the last thought as she slipped out of bed and into her now dried jeans and a sweater that Bobby had lent her that swallowed her whole, walking down the stairs and towards the kitchen. How could she possibly miss a man she had known for less than 20 hours.

When she reached the kitchen, she saw him standing over a skillet, frying bacon.

"I thought I smelled perfection. 

“Thought you might like a hearty breakfast,” Bobby replied, smiling at her. “Before…”

He didn’t finish the thought, but Wendy finished it in her head for him: ‘Before I walk out that door and never see you again.’

“I am a hearty eater,” she said instead, wanting to break the awkwardness.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like a mummy,” Wendy laughed. “That bed is far too comfortable.”

“I’m glad,” Bobby said, dishing out the bacon and eggs and putting a few pieces of toast on her plate.

They ate in silence. Wendy wanted to say something, say a lot of things, but nothing made it out.

“So,” Bobby finally said as they finished. “Thought I could take you into town later, you know. When the rain let up. It’d be a pain to get out in this weather.”

Wendy smiled.

She could stay a little longer.

  

                                     *                                      *                                   *

“You don’t want it to get too cooked on the skillet because you’re going to mix it in with the noodles and vegetables and then stick it in the oven,” Wendy directed.

Bobby nodded in affirmation and kept pushing the steak pieces around as they sizzled.

The rain still hadn’t let up, so it only made sense for Wendy to spend the day with Bobby.

They had found a chess board and Bobby had been aghast that Wendy didn’t know how to play, so the morning had been spend teaching her the ins and outs of the game.

And the rain still pelted down at noon, so they made an easy lunch and sat out on the porch, eating sandwiches and drinking lemonade and talking about their favourite books.

And the rain still poured in the afternoon, so they had dug out Bobby’s collection of old black and white movies and spent the afternoon watching It Happened One Night and Bringing Up Baby and Every Girl Should Be Married.

And the rain still came down in sheets in the evening, so Wendy had decided to teach Bobby her favourite recipe; her own take on pasta puttanesca with steak. When the dish was done, they sat at the table and laughed as they swapped stories and drank more wine.

And the rain still didn’t look as if it would ever stop that night, so they sat out on the porch getting a little tipsy on another bottle of wine they found in Bobby’s basement and talking about Bobby’s wife and Wendy’s ex boyfriends until the rain turned into a storm and forced them inside to stay dry.

And the storm continued as Wendy rested her head on Bobby’s shoulder as he slipped an arm around her as they sat on the couch listening to swing music on Bobby’s old record player until Bobby could tell she was starting to nod off.

“You should get some rest,” he told her, moving his arm so she could get up.'

Wendy raised her head and looked at Bobby.

Bobby didn’t know what the look was she was giving him, if it was sorrow or hope or desire or confusion or maybe a combination of all of them. So he did the most natural thing in the world; he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and rested his hand on her cheek.

Wendy sighed and lifted her own hand to hold over his, closing her eyes.

“I don’t want the rain to ever stop,” she whispered, then closed the gap between them and kissed him.