Chapter 1
Jaye
You know how they say, things are totally different when it’s your own kids? That’s mainly true. However, one of the exceptions is when it comes to reading and buying books. I constantly do both like they’re flunking students who I am determined to help graduate by any means necessary. I guess the biggest difference between Private Academy Librarian Jaye and Mom Jaye is that I buy my girls books directly versus just telling a parent or parents or nanny – we don’t have one of those – what books they should be buying. Not a monumental difference.
“Mom, we can’t forget to pick out a new cookbook for Grandma Caroline.” Rainne Saint Cox, my seven-year-old going on thirty-seven politely reminds from my side on our way towards Crack That, our favorite bookstore. “Remember how much she loved the Disney one we got for Mimi for her birthday this year?”
No, you heard her right. Grandma Caroline. Chris’s parents – who are still my parents’ best friends – have stepped into the role of extra grandparents for our girls. We were as surprised as anyone – all things considered – but I get the feeling that this allows them to have a piece of life that they never thought they would after he died. Explaining the situation to the girls – how not all family is blood and how tragedy can create new bonds – was a great teaching opportunity that also inspired me to write and illustrate my third children’s book, which covered the subject. Hm? Oh! Yeah! Yeah! I’ll tell you all about my first one! It was written and published a little after a year into my relationship with Archer. It was about a bunny who needed help from a gardener that listened to the bunny’s issues. And then the bunny, encouraged other bunnies to go to the gardener to be heard as well as guided, too. It was created to help young children who transition into therapy, and I’m happy to report that it’s not only on our shelf in the library at the private academy I still work for, but that it was also bought by several doctors for their practices, including the one Dmitri Chappell – dreamy doctor that wasn’t for me – runs. Don’t worry. No hard feelings there. He’s happily married, too! We even take our kids to him for wellness visits and on the occasion playdates. See. No bad blood.
“And Grandpa Kristof likes birds,” Rainne continues to recall during our stroll, more curls escaping loose from the bottom of her beanie.
“So, he needs a bird book!” squeaks, my four-year-old daughter Henzley, anxious to contribute to the conversation.
Her sister leans around my frame to swiftly correct, “An ornithology book, Henz.”
“Ornifallofgy.”
“Ornithology.”
“Ornahallofgy.”
Rainne poorly hides her frustration sounds that are too much like her grandmother’s for her own good. “Awr-nuh-thol-uh-jee.”
“Awr-nuh-thol-uh-jee,” Henz quietly repeats to herself over and over again, clearly trying to soak in not only the word but how to correctly say it as well.
I don’t know if that’s a technique she learned all on her own or one inspired from hearing her father repeat his mantra when he occasionally gets a little off kilter. Thankfully, the meds and therapy over the years have helped tremendously; however, that’s the thing about PTSD. There’s no cure. You can still have an episode. It’s about controlling and preventing whenever possible. Proactive versus reactive. The kids know that Dad has to do it for his health, just like they know mental health matters just as much as physical health. They also know about his limp – which is really only that noticeable when it gets too cold out like today. While they don’t fully grasp the concept of war or the military, they understand Archer served for the country that they live in to protect them in ways almost like a superhero does and that the tags on display on our family wall are a reminder of that. And that their names – Rainne’s middle and Henz’s first, which contains a z plus the way it sounds – are both after his best friends who didn’t survive the fight like their dad did. What’s interesting is that type of talk makes Henz get teary and huggy and almost afraid she might lose him yet fills Rainne with curiosity and a bit of anger that not everyone comes back from those things. She wants reasons why. And wants answers for why they have to fight to begin with. I’m gonna be totally up front here and say that shit is so not the easiest subject to approach with kids. And I don’t think I can write a bunny themed book to help explain it better. Trust me. I’ve already tried.
“And we can’t forget the ones for-” Rainne’s voice and frame abruptly come to a halt, prompting me to glance down to see why.
Following her stare off into the distance towards the end of the strip center, I see a familiar sight that both swells and crushes my heart.
Never doubt that these are my children. And not just because they look like lighter skinned, green-eyed versions of me.
“Mom,” Henz calls to me while tugging on my distressed jeans, “you have them?” My gaze drops to see her bright green one that’s wide and brimming with hope. “You have them, right?”
“Always, Henz. Give me a sec.” Letting go of her hand allows me to dive into my purse for what I know they both want. The first folded coloring sheet is given to Rainne while the next is presented to my youngest. “Go ahead. I’m right behind you.”
Both kids take off towards the homeless man strumming Christmas carols on his beat-up guitar, excited to present him with another gift they made with their own hands.
“Walking feet!”
Groans of displeasure pierce the air, but they do what they’ve been told.
They slow down just enough to prevent the numerous collisions that almost occurred with the other sidewalk occupants.
I don’t know what it is about this guy, but they’ve really taken a liking to him. They each create one picture for him if they know we’re going to the bookstore and then take so much joy in delivering it directly to him. He’s almost always out here when we come and typically, playing something on his guitar, which is probably the only reason he isn’t continuously run off from the area.
“Jedd!” The girls gleefully croak in unison.
He immediately stops playing “Silent Night” and offers them a wide mouth grin. “Girls!”
My arrival isn’t far behind them whatsoever and neither is my enthusiasm. “Afternoon, Jedd!”
“The Mom,” he warmly greets on a polite head nod.
He doesn’t use their names. I wouldn’t have a problem with it, but I get the feeling he does it to prove that he’s not after us. That he doesn’t have nefarious intentions. That he just…appreciates the acknowledgment we provide. That he’s getting the kindness of visitors who want to see him versus those disgusted by his presence.