“I passed!” she squeals before slapping a hand over her mouth. “I did it, Graham!”
Tears spring to my eyes as Charley starts to cry. Earlier this week, she took the psychomotor exam, which is one of the final steps needed to become an EMT. She’s been studying so hard, working her butt off, and having me quiz her over and over. She was more than ready, but she wasn’t so sure.
“Charley, that’s incredible!” Placing my hands on her shoulders, wanting to hug her but not knowing if it’s okay, I dip my head down, level to hers, and say, “I’m so fucking proud of you! I knew you had it in the bag.”
Her eyes are wet and squinty from her smile. “Thank you,” she murmurs before closing the distance and wrapping her arms around my middle.
My throat tightens as I hug her back. She’s squeezing me tight, and with her head is resting on my chest, and I can’t help it…like it’s completely out of my control, I find myself inhaling a little deeper just to fill my senses with her scent. I could catch a buzz standing right here, breathing her in.
“Congratulations, Sunny,” I rasp, the nickname falling off my tongue before I realize. Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything about it. “I’m so damn proud of you.”
The embrace lasts for another minute before she pulls away at the sound of Ellie Mae and Biggie trotting up the steps. Charley crouches down and holds out her arms, my daughter excitedly wrapping her tiny arms around her neck as she picks her up and squeezes her.
“I passed my test, sweet girl. Can you believe that?”
Ellie Mae squeals, giving Charley a high five, and I just stand here…watching them. Like I always do. The longer Charley lives here, the closer they become, and it’s such a strange feeling. The way my throat gets tight, and my chest swells, and the hairs on my arms stand up. And sometimes when I watch them playing together, it feels like I can’t quite catch my breath.
When Megan died, the one thing I struggled with the most was this overwhelming fear that Ellie Mae would never get to experience her mother’s love. Sure, she has my sisters and my parents and, of course, she has me, but kids need their mom too. I’m not obtuse; I know there will be a time when Ellie Mae comes to me with something I know nothing about, and while I will always do whatever I can to learn and help her, I struggled—and still struggle sometimes—knowing she won’t have a parent around who has gone through what she’ll go through. A parent she could relate to and confide in when she’s feeling things she doesn’t necessarily want to talk to her dad about.
Watching Charley love on Ellie Mae, watching her play with her, and laugh with her, and be silly with her, watching them develop little daily routines that are just for them, like going out every morning and letting the chickens out, then sitting on the porch and watching the dog chase them around, or like how Ellie Mae sits on the counter in the bathroom and watches Charley get ready every morning, the way Charley will pretend to put blush on her or apply mascara, the way they always have a dance party before it’s time for Ellie Mae to wind down for bed… It all terrifies me because I can see her doing this every day forthe rest of our lives. I can see Charley being the mom Ellie Mae needs and deserves. Nobody could ever replace Megan in her heart, but I can see us being a family.Allof us. Not just this platonic co-parenting arrangement we’re currently doing.
It terrifies me because it’s not what she wants; it’s not what this is, but I don’t know how to stop my head, and heart, from going there. And I know if I don’t figure it out soon, I’m only going to end up hurting myself in the long run.
“You are treatinga patient that has been involved in a motor vehicle accident. You can lift a flap of skin on the patient’s head—what a visual. This type of injury would be referred to as what?”
Charley chuckles before thinking about the question for a moment. “Avulsion!”
“Yes, good job. Alright, last one,” I say, bringing a new index card to the front of the deck. “Get this right, and you’ll get a sundae.”
She snorts. “I’m getting the sundae, regardless, but go on.”
A smile spreads across my face. “Fair enough.” Clearing my throat, I read the question aloud. “The mitral or bicuspid valve A. Prevents blood from backflowing into the left atrium, B. Prevents blood from backflowing into the right atrium, C. Prevents blood from backflowing into the lungs, or D. Is located between the left atrium and the right ventricle?
Charley doesn’t even have to think about this one. “A,” she answers confidently. “The mitral or bicuspid valve prevents the blood from backflowing into the left atrium.”
“Correct! You’re incredible.” I toss the card on top of all the other cards she got right. Out of the twenty-something we’ve gone through tonight, she’s only been wrong twice. “Those possible answers were weird. A through C were talking about what the valve did, while option D was about where it’s located. That answer didn’t fit at all.”
Chuckling, Charley tidies up the index cards, then sets them on the coffee table before standing. “That’s probably the point, Graham,” she says playfully.
“Well, good job,” I offer. “You’re gonna pass the cognitive exam with flying colors. And honestly, I’m impressed. There’s no way I could retain that much information, and the answers flow out of you so naturally.”
“Sure you could,” she replies, her hand coming to her hip as she stands in front of me. “How many recipes do you have memorized? Proper cook times and temperatures? Or even how much of everything is in stock in the kitchen at the inn at all times?”
“That’s different,” I murmur.
“No, it’s not.” Smirking, she shakes her head. “You’ve got a plethora of knowledge up in your head that I, and probably tons of other people, could never retain. Sure, it’s different material, but it’s the same concept.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave her off. “I guess you’re right.”
Charley laughs lightly and walks into the kitchen. “Hot fudge or caramel?” she calls out. “Or both?”
Chuckling, I say, “Both, obviously.”
A minute later, Charley strolls into the living room and hands me one of the sundaes she made, keeping one for herself as she plops down on the couch next to me and swipes the remote off the end table.
“Thank you, but I really could’ve made these for us.”
“Please, I make the better sundae, and you know it.” She snorts. “Besides, you cook dinner every single night. Sweet treat o’clock is the least I can do.”
