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Gracie sat beside her, and I took the chair across from them. “Did you have fun painting? I put your favorite pizza in the oven. I thought we’d keep it simple tonight.”
She nodded as she handed me several paintings. They were all the same dark and gloomy painting she’d been making for weeks, with three black blobs in the sky like the clouds of death.
“Nice,” I said, trying to fake it, because they were about as depressing as it got.
“Tell Daddy what the paintings are,” my mother said, stroking the hair away from her face.
“It’s our family.”
Jesus. If this was a family photo, I’d clearly failed as a father.
I glanced out the window to see that it was raining again, so maybe the weather was just a reflection of that.
“I see. These black spots are us?”
“Those are birds, Daddy. Me and Presley are both ravens. We like to fly free on our horses. And you’re a raven because you want to stay right by us.”
Three birds.
Three fucking ravens.
I studied the photo. “Why is the sky always gloomy? You do remember that sometimes it’s sunny outside, right?”
“The sky is gray because our family is in a storm right now. Because we aren’t together.”
My mother raised a brow at me, letting me know I’d misread the painting.
Really? Was I suddenly supposed to be some deep-thinking artistic guy?
I thought it was just a depressing photo with black blobs and an endless gray sky.
But this was a punch to the gut in a different way.
“But you know that Presley doesn’t live here, right?”
She nodded. “I want us all to live together. Presley loves us; she told me so. And we love her.”
“I know that. But that isn’t always enough, Gracie girl.” I stood and lifted her before settling her on my lap as I sat beside my mom. “I know that it hurts, because it hurts me, too. And I’m sure she’s hurting just like we are.”
“I don’t like her being all alone. I know she’s missing us a lot. I called her on your phone when you were in the shower a few days ago. And she told me so.”
I startled. That was out of character for Gracie not to tell me something like that. Not to ask to make a call. Sure, she’d asked me to show her how to call my mother and my siblings before. And she’d called Presley once when I was sitting beside her on the couch a few weeks ago. But she was fucking five years old. Since when was she that resourceful to figure it out on her own?
“You shouldn’t use Daddy’s phone without asking.”
She shrugged like that was a moot point and not worth answering.
What the fuck is happening?
My mom chuckled and looked between us. “Tell us why you called her and why you didn’t tell Daddy that you did.”
“Because I miss her. And my heart hurts. And Daddy doesn’t want to talk about it. And Presley told me her heart hurts, too.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. I just don’t know how to fix it,” I admitted. It was the truth.
“You know what Mrs. Clifton says when you don’t know what to do?”
If I had a nickel for every time Mrs. motherfucking Clifton was quoted with her kindergarten advice that had too many hidden messages to dissect, I’d be a very wealthy man.
