“Where did you study acupressure?” Forrest asks me, absent-mindedly rubbing Scout’s ears when he gets head-butted in the leg for attention.
I shrug. “Countless acupuncture appointments with Savannah. Books, YouTube. I’m not an expert, though.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, and there’s no denying the hop-skip-jump my heart does at his words. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“Of course,” I say, brushing a lock of hair away from my burning face before it catches fire. I glance at Trapper, who’s smiling at our exchange like a cat with a canary in his mouth.
“Come on, Dad. It’s time for your PT and meds. I’ll get you settled upstairs.”
I look at Scout, who can’t seem to decide which of us to beg for a walk. He keeps swinging his head to look at us in turn, tail wagging hopefully.
“I could take Scout outside,” I offer. “I need some fresh air, anyway.”
“You don’t have to,” Forrest says. “I’ll walk him after I finish with—”
“That would be great, Margot, thank you,” Trapper cuts him off. “Why don’t you come upstairs with us first, and I’ll get you his lead. I want to show you what Forrest’s done to my rooms.”
I look up at him, startled. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Trapper chuckles. “You don’t need to stick around for my torture session, don’t worry. Just a minute, and you and Scout can be on your way.”
“Dad, that’s really not necessary. Scout doesn’t even use a lead,” Forrest says.
“Please, Margot?” Trapper interrupts us. “Will you humor me? It won’t take five minutes.”
Forrest shakes his head at me, signaling that I don’t have to come up. The last thing we need is more time in each other’s company. Then I look at Trapper, and there’s nothing for it.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. “Lead the way.”
When we’re all upstairs, I’m led to a wide door that opens into a sitting area and kitchenette featuring large windows and a door that leads out onto a deck. The view is spectacular, and I wonder, not for the first time, if people who live here ever get used to the beauty of this place. As I walk in, I notice that wooden handrails, much like ballet bars, line the room. Light switches are low enough for Trapper to reach comfortably, along with cabinets and bookshelves that are all at wheelchair height.
Trapper sees me looking around and nods approvingly while Scout proudly trots to his cozy flannel bed in the corner and retrieves a worse-for-the-wear stuffed animal that might have been a duck at some point.
“You’d never know this place was just a bunch of extra guest rooms before.” Trapper beams with pride as Scout drops the tattered duck at my feet. “Forrest remodeled everything himself.”
I’m scratching Scout behind the ear when I’m hit by the memory of Forrest in the sauna, dusted in wood shavings and holding a drill in the world’s most blatant display of competency porn. I guess it stands to reason that he’d be able to retrofit an entire living space. He’d probably raised a barn single-handedly by the time he was twelve.
“Bear helped,” Forrest rumbles, his hand rising to the back of his neck.
I walk toward a corner of the sitting area where physical therapy devices and medical equipment are organized. I take in theneatly organized row of syringes I assume are for Trapper’s nerve blocks and a stack of black notebooks that justfeellike Forrest, and something spreads through my chest that’s so tender, it aches. I may not have handled any power tools when I adapted my home for Savannah, but I oversaw the contractors and did the research. I know how much time, effort, and love it requires to make a living space comfortable for someone with a disability.
“He did an amazing job, didn’t he?” Trapper says as he comes up next to me.
I look down at him and realize that my eyes, while not exactly teary, aren’t exactly dry either. Embarrassed, I try to blink the moisture away, but I’m not fooling anyone. As I stand there, surrounded by the evidence of Forrest’s love for Trapper, it’s impossible not to think of my own father, whom I haven’t spoken to in well over a decade.
Ever since I read Savannah’s letter, half-formed memories of his scattered, creative chaos, which I naively adored as a child, have fluttered through my mind like leaves on the wind. They drift away, just like he did when we needed him most, until all that remain are the ghosts of visitation rights never exercised and the unspoken message that we weren’t enough to anchor him. It’s unfathomable to imagine any sort of relationship with him now.
To see Forrest, so dedicated, so present for his father, is like looking into a world that could have been mine but never was. A lump forms in my throat.
“He really did,” I say softly.
My eyes rise to meet Forrest’s, and for once, I can’t look away from his dark-green gaze. I may not have a father like Trapper, but I have this kind of love with my sister, and Forrest sees it. An understanding I’ve never felt with anyone else expands between us. It reaches inside me, filling up the cracks left by so many people who didn’t understand the time and sacrifice it takes to truly care for Savannah. People like Adam. But my ex-fiancé’s name islike a gnat on my periphery right now. All I see is Forrest. I understood before why he left California, but standing in this lovingly constructed room, I also understand that if he hasn’t already turned down the grant offer, he will soon.
What I don’t understand is why the thought leaves me feeling so gutted.
“Thanks so much for showing me,” I say quietly, placing my hand on Trapper’s shoulder. “I should get Scout outside. Come on, boy.” I pat my leg to get the dog’s attention. Scout comes immediately, and without waiting for a reply, I turn and leave father and son alone together, just as I’ll do again in three short weeks.
15FORREST
