Too long… he realizes when he arranges all the nine wooden block letters that spell her name on the floor. It'll occupy too much wall space, cluttering it up, knocking against the shelves he had already installed, and would rather unbecomingly cover up the details of the mural that had been painted just a few days ago.
Peter stares at the letters in silence for a few minutes, reading them together, over and over, pondering the problem, before sighing.
It just wasn't going to work, he thinks, feeling more disappointment than was warranted over the issue.
It's not like the baby was going to care really… or going to be able to read for a few years for that matter genius, a snarky voice goes off in his head, undoubtedly questioning when Peter Bishop became a man so consumed with the aesthetics of interior design.
He picks up the letters one by one from the left, trying to recall where he left the invoice for the purchase to be able to make the return, knowing the store owner was not going to be happy about this. He had driven the woman to the edge of frustration, asking to see every and each sample they stocked, scrutinizing everything, asking a million questions.
"You should try shopping online. So many more options…" She had said with a deceptively polite smile when he finally zeroed in on the one he liked, an almost relieved expression on her face.
He pauses when he reaches the second 'e', his eyes suddenly seeing something, something that hadn't crossed his mind before.
A possibility he hadn't considered. He lays out the letters again, looking at them as if a new light, a smile making its way across his lips.
Etta…
He says it out loud, testing the sound of it on his tongue, repeating it then, louder this time. The weight of the syllables on his tongue, succinct, soft… but with a definite edge.
He likes it, likes it very much indeed. The moniker almost feels like a revelation, perfect in more ways than one. He pictures in his mind, the child that will answer to the address, sees her clearer than ever this time, sees her for the first time without feeling that twang of regret he always seemed to feel.
He can't say he doesn't struggle with the choice of the namesake. The doubt that doesn't go away after all these weeks.
But this, this is good. It's really good. Befitting in every way. He mounts the block letters onto the wall then, right over the crib, making sure it was at the right level of sight, checking his measurements to make sure he got it correctly.
Olivia finds it amusing, his near obsession with the nursery.
"I thought this whole nesting business was supposed to my thing." She had said teasingly when he showed her the detailed plans he'd drawn up, the hundred and ten revisions he's made to said plans, the hours he's spent working on it.
"Just want everything to be perfect." He'd shrugged.
The project was an extravagance in every sense. More money and effort than they could afford to spare if he were being honest with himself. But he couldn't be bothered with practical considerations. There was no question of making do, no good enough.
Nothing but the very best for his little girl.
It's more than just a room, the nursery. It's a promise. A promise of a life that would be full of everything a child should have. A promise of a childhood free of pain or worry or neglect, one that would know love and attention in abundance.
Inside these walls, no joy would ever be denied to her, he would make certain of that. Everything she desired, every wish made true.
It's not that he's impervious to the fact that he's over compensating, making up for lost childhoods – his, Olivia's… that little boy whose name he was not brave enough to say out loud for fear that it would feel too much like building a shrine…
Was his son's arrival anticipated with so much enthusiasm, he can't help wondering at times. Did someone build him a nursery, think to baby proof…
Did someone stay up at night, thinking about his life and future, worrying about schools and crunching numbers for a college fund?
Was he loved?
Was he wanted?
The flashes of images he'd caught in the observer's mind showed him enough to believe that he was. But he was hard pressed to believe she wouldn't have been conflicted, just like he would have been had he known…
The thought hurts, like someone had picked over a scab, guilt he's sure will follow him his entire lifetime, no matter how many years passed, no matter how hard he tried to be a good father to be his daughter.
It will always hurt to know he had already failed at this once.
But he had a second chance to make this right. A second chance to be a man deserving of fatherhood.
He runs his hands over the name then, feeling reassured by the warmth of the deep stained wood, taking in the way they lined up together, almost like a good idea that had just been waiting to happen. The proof of her existence finally feels solid within these walls of this room, the space transformed, feeling so much more alive than it had been.
He smiles at the thought of the day he would finally get to bring her home in his arms, bring her in here, and show her the world he had crafted for her with his own hands, the one in which she would be safe and happy in, the one in which she would live and grow and play and sleep.
"Etta…" He says it out loud again; unable to help the smile that grows wider each time he says the name.
"I hope you like it here kiddo…"