Dad, I think when I feel my chest tighten. Tomorrow is the third anniversary of his passing.
Growing up in this house, an only child to a man who never remarried after my mother passed away when I was just nine, I never missed a thing. He was the best father a girl could wish for. In fact, he made me believe in magic.
After parking my car in the garage, unpacking the groceries and putting them away— aka the wine, cheese, and already made salads— I take out my phone, open the Notes app, and begin writing my yearly text to my father.
The annual birthday text always tends to be longer, always harder to write, and always much more emotionally taxing, than the random ones I send to him and Mom throughout the year.
Friday
Waking up to the sun warming my face, my ass no longer hurts, and my ankle no longer throbs, only slightly aches. I smile as I inwardly thank Dad for three magical acts on a day I dread.
Reaching over, I grab my phone, prop myself up onto my elbows, and open my Notes app to finish my letter.
Daddy,
Today marks three years since you’ve been gone. Google tells me that’s thirty-six months, one thousand ninety-five days, twenty-six thousand two hundred and eighty hours, and over one million five hundred and seventy-six thousand seconds. When I allow my heart to soften, it tells me you’re still here. My head tells me that’s not possible. Logically, I know my head is right, but I choose to believe in magic, because of you.
As per my norm, I get caught up in my feelings as I tap out my annual letter. I know they are the same every year, yet each word evokes emotions and feelings so raw it’s like they’re being knifed into my soul. It takes me right back.
Knowing how hard I’ve worked to heal that part of me, I turn my focus to the good that has happened over the past year, and then I force myself to end the message.
If only you could see me now, you’d be so proud of me.
I love you, Daddy.
I’ll see you soon.
Love,
Your Elizabeth
Wiping the fallen tears off my cheek, I copy the note and open my list of favorites in my contacts— Dad’s has always been first. Then I paste the note, kiss the phone, and hit “send.”
I hold my phone to my chest and roll onto my back, giving me a sharp kick to my sore ass, and silently tell myself to get up, take a shower, take a walk … Well, apparently, not a nice, long one, but at least get out of the house and function.
When I finally hold the phone out and look at the time, I’m proud of myself for only taking twenty minutes to grieve, before I’m ready to function. Last year, it was nearly three hours.
Stepping carefully out of the shower, I hear my phone chime. Drying my hands, I look down at it to see Calliope (yoga).
I pick up the phone and read the message.
I’d love to have you join Bridget and me for an hour between my ten o’clock and twelve o’clock class at the studio. ~ Calliope
I look in the mirror and see the five extra pounds and obvious jiggle that wasn’t there six months ago when I was going to Calliope’s class three days a week, then send her a quick message.
See you then. ~ Lizzie
I then shoot Tonya a quick text.
Going to meet Calliope and Bridget for yoga, then hitting the coffee shop after. ~ Lizzie
Her response is immediate. A heart appears next to my sent message.
Thatta girl! I’m proud of you for pulling yourself up by Dr. Nail-It-or-Screw-It’s boot strap and letting off some of that pent-up frustration on something other than your magic wand. I’ll meet you for coffee. ;) ~Tonya
Oh, no, she didn’t! I laugh to myself as I send her the middle finger emoji.
“You did amazing,” Bridget says as she sets her bag on the floor beside the table for four at the coffee shop.
Calliope, sitting beside me, says, “This is going to be incredible for those with injuries who don’t think they can still enjoy the benefits of yoga.”
Tonya, who joined us for Calliope’s last class of the day, smiles. “Not only the physical but the mental health benefits that come from exercise, as well.”
From behind me, I hear, “Four women walk into a coffee house. One nurse, one fitness instructor, one teacher, and one …?”
I don’t even have to look back to know who the voice belongs to, and if the accent didn’t give it away, the smile brightening Bridget’s face would have.
Tonya raises her hand. “Psychiatrist.”
“Well, that changes everything entirely.” Dr. Hogue laughs.
I take a sip of my water while turning around to get a look at that smile and nearly choke when I see Dr. Stewart standing behind Dr. Hogue.
His green eyes narrow when they connect with mine.
“Ethan, you’ve met Calliope, my Bridget, and Elizabeth. This is …?”
My eyes sweep to Tonya, who looks shocked, mouth gaping and the whole nine. I kick her under the table and, simultaneously, we both yelp.
Dr. Nail-It-or-Screw-It looks down. “The boot giving ye a bit of a problem, Ms. Bloom?”
I quickly look away from him and to Dr. Hogue. “This is my Tonya.”
My Tonya? What the hell?
Dr. Hogue smirks and gives a little nod.
“I suggest ye call my office for an appointment so we can see what further damage ye’ve done to yer fractured ankle when kicking yer Tonya.”
“And bruised arse,” Dr. Hogue taunts a bit.
“Her arse is fine,” Dr. Stewart quips.
I feel the blood rush to my face and burn as Calliope, Bridget and, yes, even my Tonya all quietly giggle.
“Really, ladies?” Dr. Stewart scowls as he turns toward Dr. Hogue. “I’ll leave ye in primary school and meet you at the gym.”
“Claire Fraser,” the barista, Sheila, who shares in my love of Outlander and just happens to be working today, calls my fake name, telling me my order is up.
Ethan turns back and quirks an eyebrow at me, clearly questioning my sanity.
I fight with everything I am to remain composed as I stand and force my eyes from his. I start toward the counter when Ethan steps in my way.
“Go sit yer arse down. I’ll fetch yer order.”
I look up at him, confused.
He smirks. “Sassenach.”
Oh.
No.
He.
Didn’t.
But yes … yes, he did.
Friday
Ethan
Walking out of the wellness center after an hour of handball and an hour of weight training, Simon chuckles behind me. “You’re obviously working through something.”
“Got a lot on my mind,” I reply instead of stating the truth, which is: I feel as if I’ve lost the ever-loving fucking thing.
“Quirky little brunette is all I’ve been hearing about for a week now,” Simon continues to fuck with me.
It’s true. I did call him and go off about Ms. Bloom’s behavior in my office. Maybe more than once.
Never in my life have I wanted to redden the arse of a patient before, and I’ve had my fair share of difficult ones. But the moment they realize I’m not one to coddle, mince words, or put up with blatant disrespect, they stop their bullshit, and quickly learn that I am the best at what I do.