Chapter 27 - The End
Nine months after Poppy left the pediatric ICU, she became obsessed with playing doctor.
Every stuffed animal was sick.
Bear had pneumonia.
Rabbit had a broken leg.
A plastic dinosaur required, according to Poppy, “brain surgery and a Band-Aid.”
I spent Sunday afternoon on Laurel’s apartment floor while Poppy examined my knee with a toy stethoscope.
“You’re very sick.”
“I feel fine.”
“No.”
“What do I have?”
She considered.
“Too much Grandpa.”
Laurel laughed from the kitchen.
I looked at her.
“Did you teach her that?”
“No.”
Poppy wrapped a toy blood-pressure cuff around my wrist.
The same wrist that carried my signet ring.
“Don’t move.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Then she put a small plastic oxygen mask over the face of her stuffed rabbit.
My body tightened.
Almost invisibly.
Laurel noticed.
She said nothing.
Poppy pressed the mask to Rabbit.
“Breathe.”
Then removed it.
My stomach turned.
She looked at me.
“Why face?”
“What face?”
“The scared one.”
Children.
Nothing stays private.
I sat back.
“Grandpa remembers the hospital.”
Poppy looked at the toy mask.
“Daddy took mine.”
“Yes.”
“Bad.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Doctor put new.”
“Yes.”
She thought.
“Mommy stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Grandpa hit Daddy.”
There.
No edited family history.
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied with the symmetry.
Then put the mask back on Rabbit.
“Rabbit wants it.”
I looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“He said.”
“Rabbit talks?”
“To me.”
Naturally.
She removed it again.
“Now no.”
I smiled.
Choice.
Play.
No panic.
Laurel came in carrying three glasses of lemonade.
Poppy abandoned medicine immediately.
“Mine?”
“The small one.”
She grabbed it.
Then spilled half onto the rug.
I stood too quickly.
Laurel looked at me.
“Sit.”
I sat.
She blotted the spill with a towel.
No emergency.
Poppy drank the remaining half.
Then returned to Rabbit.
My phone buzzed.
Business.
I looked.
Did not answer.
Laurel raised an eyebrow.
“You’re learning.”
“Slowly.”
“Very.”
I deserved that.
Then the supervised-visit coordinator messaged Laurel.
Cole’s next visit confirmed for Wednesday.
Poppy saw his name.
“Daddy?”
Laurel did not hide the screen.
“Wednesday.”
“Can he bring waffles?”
“I’ll ask the supervisor.”
“Chocolate?”
“One chocolate.”
“Two.”
“Negotiation closed.”
Poppy sighed.
Then looked at me.
“Grandpa bring three.”
“No.”
She stared in betrayal.
I said:
“Your mother decides.”
The words came more easily now.
Laurel smiled slightly.
Not because I was obeying her.
Because I finally understood the difference between helping and overruling.
Poppy returned to her medical kit.
She picked up the toy oxygen mask again.
Walked toward me.
“Grandpa sick.”
“What now?”
“Need air.”
I let her hold the mask over my mouth.
Plastic smelled faintly like crayons.
She said:
“Breathe.”
I did.
One breath.
Two.
Then she pulled it away.
“Done.”
I resisted the urge to turn the moment into meaning.
That was another thing I had learned.
Not every mask is the ICU mask.
Not every door is a threat.
Not every bill is leverage.
Not every man who loves someone is entitled to make decisions for them.
Poppy put the toy mask back in the kit.
Then picked up Rabbit.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
The apartment building had a small courtyard.
Laurel opened the door.
Poppy ran ahead with Rabbit under one arm.
I started after her.
Laurel touched my sleeve.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to follow every step.”
I looked through the open door.
Poppy was ten feet away.
Courtyard gate closed.
Laurel beside me.
Safe.
I stopped.
Poppy sat on the grass and began examining Rabbit’s ears.
No oxygen.
No alarm.
No father deciding whether she could breathe.
Just a child playing in the sun.
Laurel handed me my lemonade.
I took it.
Then asked:
“You okay?”
She looked at Poppy.
“Yes.”
Not perfect.
Not finished.
Yes.
We stood in the doorway together.
Far enough away that Poppy had room.
Close enough that if she called, we would hear her.
A minute later she did.
“Grandpa!”
Every old instinct in me surged.
I stepped forward.
“What?”
She held up Rabbit.
“His bandage fell off!”
I stopped.
Then laughed.
“Can you fix it?”
Poppy considered the strip of toy gauze.
“Yes.”
“Then fix it.”
She did.
May you like
All by herself.
The End
