Chapter 38

Present

The difference between the last time I was in the library last week and the today was stark. I'd been in millions of high stress situations over the years, and many of them in the last five years had made me think about what might have happened if Kenzie had been caught up in the mix. Thankfully, it had never happened so far, but this latest event hit closer to home than was comfortable. Kenzie and I spent so much time in the library it was like a third home (first being our actual home and second being Rangeman). I loved how at ease she was wandering the stacks, picking out new books to devour, stroking the spines and covers of favourites like they were old friends. She knew all the librarians by name and would greet them warmly every single time we visited. But the scene in this very same space last Friday cast a shadow over my mind the moment we entered today.

The wound on my upper arm throbbed as my eyes caught on the patch job someone had done on the wall after removing the bullet that had lodged there after slicing past me. So many things could have gone wrong that day. Even with the best case scenario for the library patrons, having gotten them out of dodge fairly quickly, Tony was a volatile unknown, a loose cannon, and if his gun had been just a couple inches to the left, the bullet that grazed my upper arm could have taken my life instead.

And where would that leave Kenzie? Orphaned. No mother. No father. All alone.

I have no doubt that my family and friends would step up and make sure she was looked after, and had a happy and healthy life, but there was no true replacement for a parent. I didn't want my little girl to have to go through life without me there to guide and support her. It was the reason I'd stuck around to make things work as best I could with Phoebe, and with Phoebe gone, it was more important than ever.

A familiar, high-pitched laugh rose above the giggles emitting from the group of children sitting cross-legged on the carpet, drawing my gaze away from the wall and back over to the pure joy plastered on my daughter's face. I never wanted that expression to fade. Everything I'd don in the last five and a half years was to make sure MacKenzie had the best chances in life. It was a fulfilling task, especially when she showed exactly how happy and grateful she was for all the effort I put in, but I'd be lying if I said I thought my life was complete as it was.

As much as I'd never intended on settling down with a wife and child, I'd found that the lifestyle brought a certain amount of satisfaction. Even with a woman like Phoebe, it was nice to come home to someone and share rituals. Then, adding Kenzie to the mix, I'd started truly looking forward to returning home after work each evening to see her chubby little face, and hear all about the little things she was discovering each day.

As she grew, my homecomings became even more rewarding. As my daughter grew, so did my love for her, and hers for me. She would toddle as fast as she could to meet me at the door each evening, all grins and babbling and sloppy kisses. Kenzie was showing signs of having a favourite parent, and her mother was not it. This lead to a new layer of strain on the already rocky relationship between Phoebe and me, but for the most part, we managed to play happy family.

When Phoebe died, I had been wracked with an overwhelming combination of relief and guilt. Relief that I no longer had to worry about Phoebe's mounting outbursts every time Kenzie chose me over her, or I managed to cause offense in some other way. Guilt, not only because I was washing with such a potent sense of relief, but because of the part I had played in the events that lead to Phoebe's death and the fact that Kenzie would have to bear the consequences by growing up without a mother.

Over time, as we'd settled into our new normal, though the guilt had eased significantly, I could help but feel that something was missing from our lives. There were a million little things every day that reminded me of the gaping hold not only in my own life, but in Kenzie's as well.

For example, the unexpected little questions that spilled from her mouth as she pondered the unfolding tale about her mother. Like the one that she came out with while we were browsing the shelves after story time.

I was trailing behind her, half a dozen books cradled in my arm as she hunted for 'something with dragons; to round out her selections, when she paused with her hand on a book we'd borrowed a number of times before. Her little forehead crinkled in thought as her eyes drifted toward me. I braced myself instinctively.

"Daddy," she said slowly, still feeling out the question forming in her mind. "Did Mommy like reading?"

It was a deceptively simple question; I could sense something deeper lurking behind it. "She did," I confirmed. "Almost as much as Bo-Bo."

Her mouth formed a little 'O' of surprise, eyebrows rising up into the hair that had fallen over her face. "That's a lot," she said.

"I know," I nodded. Her abuelo was a prolific reader and had been since before even I was born. I'd be hard pressed to find anyone who spent more time reading than my own father, but Phoebe wasn't far off.

"What was Mommy's favourite book?" Kenzie asked, proving there was indeed more to her thoughts than met the eye. She had a knack for putting me on the spot with her innate curiosity.

All I could do was shrug and try to push away the feeling of guilt and failure that tried to rise up inside me. Not everything related to Phoebe was my fault. She'd made her own choices as well. "I don't know, Munchkin," I admitted.

"Why not?" she insisted.

Honesty is the best policy, I reminded myself, just as I had done thousands of times for Kenzie. Tell her the truth now so you don't get caught in a lie later on. "I never thought to ask," I told her. "I'm not much of a reader myself, so it didn't seem important to me at the time." And I hadn't planned on her dying before you could ask her these questions yourself, I added silently.

The thoughtful frown returned to her face as her eyes wandered from my face to the stack of books I held, to the shelf beside us and back again. "That's not right, Daddy," she said, her tone a puzzling mix of stern and compassionate. "You read all the time."

I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of my lips. Of course, she had the ability to call out my bullshit so easily. "To you, yes," I agreed somewhat reluctantly. "I read with you all the time because you like it, and because it's a good way for us to spend some quiet time together."

Her expression did not clear with my explanation. If anything, her frown only deepened as she continued to look from the books to me and back. "But you don't like reading?" she questioned quietly.

The weight of the conversation doubled in the pit of my stomach as I realised what was causing that troubled expression. "I don't not like it," I assured her. "It's just not something I do for myself to pass the time."

"Do you wish Mommy was alive so she could read to me instead?"

The little wobble in her voice shot straight through my heart, and I immediately scooped her up in my free arm, squeezing her tightly as I tried to infuse as much love and reassurance into the embrace. "Oh, Chicken-Pop," I murmured, noting exactly how complicated a question she'd posed. There was a part of me that wished Phoebe was still alive for a whole range of reasons, both self-centred and not. But at the same time, I couldn't help but think our lives were so much better without Phoebe in them. "Not instead. I wish Mommy was alive so you could have had a chance to know her properly instead of just from stories and photos, but I will never regret anything we do together. You're my Muffin-head, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

"And you're my Pineapple-head," she replied earnestly, pressing her cheek to mine as she tightened our hug.

A slow smile had been spreading across my face at her show of affection and the signs that she'd accepted explanation and let them soothe the disquiet that had been making waves inside her. As her words sank in, though, it was my turn to furrow my brow. "Pineapple-head?" I repeated, pulling back so I could see her face properly.

Her giggle washed over me in a welcome relief from the serious nature of the conversation up until this point. "Because your hair is spikey!" she explained, gently patting the tips of my gelled hair.

"You don't like my spikey hair?" I asked indignantly.

"No! I like it!" she said firmly. "I like pineapples!"

I narrowed my eyes in mock suspicion. "All right, then," I allowed. "Shall we get back to your quest for a dragon book?"

She agreed readily, hopping deftly out of my arms and skipping along the shelves in search of the perfect book to satisfy her needs. I followed along behind, my thoughts pulled in two alternate directions. First, the fact that I was unable to answer an important question about Kenzie's mother, leaving me to wonder if perhaps Dad might know. They'd had numerous conversations about books over the years they'd known each other, it was wasn't completely out of the realms of possibility that her favourite book had come up. And second, the fact that Kenzie had given me a pet name of my very own. I didn't know if I was more amused or proud.

"Hey Kenz,," I called, grabbing her attention as we passed a familiar shelf of books and another thought occurred to me. "I don't remember what Mommy's favourite book to read for herself was, but I just remembered her favourite book to read to you when you were a baby."

Kenzie's face lit up like a Christmas tree, bright, and hopeful. "Really?" she squealed jumping up and down. "What was it?!"

"On the night you were born," I said.

"Is that when she read it to me?" she asked, misinterpreting my words for a statement instead of the book title they were.

I shook my head. "It's the name of the book," I explained gently. "On the Night You Were Born."

"Oh!" Her head swivelled to the books surrounding us as she gave and excited wiggle. "Can we borrow it so we can read it again?" she asked.

"We have it at home still," I told her. "I think I put it in a box of your baby memories. I'll have a look for it while you're hanging with Uncle Tank today and we can read it tomorrow when you get home from your sleepover with Uncle Bobby," I suggested, carefully slipping in a reminder of the time we would be spending apart. She'd had sleepovers before, but usually at her grandparents' house or with Ella at Rangeman, or however was looking after her would come and stay at our house. She'd only slept at Ranger and Steph's twice before and never at Tanks or Bobby's. Generally speaking, if they were babysitting Kenzie at their house it was just for a few hours. She didn't appear too phased by the idea of spending the night at Bobby's house, so I pressed on. "Deal?"

"Deal," she nodded just as I spotted Tank at the entrance to the children's area, looming and dangerous in an awkward, out of place kind of way. Like he was more likely to accidentally knock over a chair than threaten bodily harm.

"Speaking of Uncles," I said, using a twirling motion with my pointer to indicate that she would turn around.

The second she did, I was all but forgotten, left in the dust as she raced toward him. "Uncle Tank!" she cried, dodging between craft tables and beanbags and narrowly avoiding stepping on a young boy's fingers.

Tank's face split into the kind of blinding grin he reserved especially for his cats and my daughter and held out his arms for her to leap into when she reached him. "Hey Nugget," he greeted after a tight squeeze and a long moment as she he set her back on her feet. "You ready to go?"

"We need to borrow these first," she replied with authority, point to the books in my grasp as I approached at a much less fervent rate.

"And you need your booster seat and overnight bag from the car," I added to her explanation of how ready to roll she was.

"And that," Kenzie agreed, nodding and slipping her hand into Tank's giant one and dragging him through the library to the self check-out machines. "Do you like reading?" she asked him in a much more conversational tone than when I'd been on the receiving end of her similar enquiries earlier. I shook my head, but acknowledged that she wouldn't have been so at ease about it if we hadn't already crossed that bridge together.

"Sometimes," Tank replied.

"Do you have a favourite book?" she followed up. I could only imagine that Bobby would also be subjected to this line of questioning this evening. Unless, of course, Tank managed to sufficiently distract her with princess movies, cats and junk food.

"Frankenstein by Mary Shelley," Tank proclaimed confidently, barely pausing a moment to think about his response. I never would have pegged him for a science-fiction fan. I was sure he was going to choose The Art of War or A Book of Five Rings, something serious and practical to match his serious and practical personality. But clearly there were a lot of things I didn't know about the unknowable Tank, since I wasn't privy to whatever it was that made watching princess movies with him so much more compelling than watching them with me.

Not that I'm complaining. My entire life is filled with pink frills and tutus, I'll gladly let Tank a slice of tiaras and ballgowns. It was good that they had something to bond over. I knew that there would come a time that she would want an adult other than me to talk to about issues arising in her life, so building the foundation of trust and friendship now was important.

I watched as Kenzie tested the shape of the name on her lips, silently repeating the title of the book to herself before shaking her head. "I haven't read that one," she told her Uncle as we reached the check out machine and she grabbed the library card from my hand and started scanning everything through. "Is it good?"

"It is," Tank confirmed, sending me a bemused expression as he accepted the scanned books Kenzie passed to him. "It's a classic."

Encouraged, perhaps, by our earlier conversation, and the fact that Tank apparently liked to read fiction, Kenzie made a request that had us both laughing out loud: "Can we read it together?"

Tank was quick to recover under the heated glare of MacKenzie Santos, as fiery as her own mother before her. "It's not a book for children," he explained almost apologetically.

But Kenzie, ever the dog with a bone, was undeterred by this roadblock. "Maybe when I'm older?" she pressed.

"Maybe," Tank agreed.