by Ciara Shayee
“There’s nothing wrong with dwarves, Laker,” Indie sniffed haughtily, eyes twinkling with the mirth she so rarely felt, let alone showed.
“Touché, touché. So, how’re you feeling now? After Kim was here, I mean.”
Indie’s face gave away her surprise that he would think to bring it up. But then, wasn’t that one of the things she liked best about him? That he didn’t tiptoe?
“I…” Frowning in annoyance at herself as well as her inability to voice how she felt, Indie trailed off. “I’m okay. It was just a shock, you know? To see his face. And I’d forgotten how much I liked drawing.”
Laker chuckled wryly, reaching up to adjust his backward grey cap. “It was amazing. How could you forget a talent like that? Now that I think about it, you were a really good artist back in school. Your dad probably has a bunch of your masterpieces somewhere.”
She shrugged, awkwardness taking over her features as she tucked her legs as close to her chest as she could manage with the bump in the way, wrapping her arms around them. When Laker glanced down at her, he was hit with the most startling sense of longing to wrap her in his arms and never let go. Her hair was a moonlit, curly, golden halo around her sad face, sad eyes shyly peering up at him. Her body betrayed her vulnerability, the life she was growing now an obvious presence in the form of an enormous bump. Laker had never felt more drawn to a person in his life.
“Indie, I—”
“Mommy? Laker?” The fact that Indie didn’t hear her daughter’s footsteps until she was standing in the doorway was a testament to how distracting Laker’s intense gaze could be.
“Here, baby girl. What’s the matter?” Indie uncurled her legs, letting Marley perch on her thighs. She leaned over the bump housing her baby brother or sister to rest her weary head against her mother’s chest.
“Nightmare,” Marley mumbled. She’d heard the word before but never said it.
Indie wished it was a word her daughter never had to utter.
“Oh, Little Sweet. That sucks.” Laker reached out, gently tickling the shell of Marley’s ear. She giggled. It was a sweet, doll-like sound Indie already lived for, despite having only heard it a handful times in Marley’s five years of life. “Don’t you know that nightmares are just pretend?”
Marley turned her head to face Laker, a sweet kink between her brows. “Pretend?”
“It’s not real, Little Sweet. It can’t hurt you. You just have to wake up, and the nightmare is gone. Poof!” He mimed a cloud puffing into the air, leaning over to rest the tip of his nose against the tip of Marley’s. She giggled again, wrinkling her nose and giving him an Eskimo kiss. Laker wanted to hear more of her laughter, see more of her smiles. He’d do anything, silly or otherwise, to earn them.
“Otay, Laker. I just wake—yawn—up.”
Laker chuckled and shared a smile with Indie, filing away the wistful look in her eyes to be revisited later as she gazed at him with Marley. “I think it’s time for sleep, Little Sweet. You look real tired.”
Indie struggled to her feet, only just managing it with Marley still clinging to her torso. It wouldn’t be long before picking her up would be all but impossible, her small frame already struggling with the heft of her quickly growing midsection. “C’mon, baby girl. Mummy will tuck you in.”
“Laker?” Marley reached for Laker, looking between him and her mother pleadingly with half-lidded eyes.
“I’ll come, I promise. Bedtime it is.”
Laker paused only long enough to lock the French doors and switch off the outside light, trailing after Indie as she made her way up the stairs at a slow waddle, Marley already well on her way to sleep against her shoulder. When they reached Indie’s room, he switched on the nightlight by the door for her, watching with soft eyes as she carefully settled Marley in her new bed despite knowing she’d be joined in the early hours by a wriggling, elbowing, five-year-old.
“’Night, baby girl. Sweet dreams. I love you,” Indie whispered, pressing a trio of kisses to Marley’s forehead as she wriggled down into the covers, only her mussed curls peeking out at the top by the time Laker had crossed the room.
“I guess I’ll say—oh, there you are,” he whispered amusedly, leaning down to kiss Marley’s forehead when she tugged the covers down a few inches at the sound of his voice. “’Night, Little Sweet. Remember, you just have to wake up, okay?”
“Okay, Laker.”
With that, she burrowed back down, Indie propping the cover up with two of the biggest teddies Reagan had bought her so she could get some fresh air. Then, suddenly feeling shy, she faced Laker.
“So, I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
He smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He noticed the shiver that rippled through her body, attributing it to the chill of his hands after being outside for a while. “Sorry, cold hands. Umm, yeah, tomorrow. I’ll help with breakfast.”
“You better,” she teased, fatigue settling over her like a blanket sent to lull her to sleep. “’Night, Laker.”
“’Night, Pie.”
Laker left her in peace, using the bathroom before readying himself to head downstairs to his sofa for the rest of the night. As he passed her room, he couldn’t help but peek in; he paused to take in the heart-warming sight of Marley and her mother snuggled together. It had taken Marley all of a few minutes to worm her way into Indie’s bed, the duo asleep on top of the covers. Marley was sprawled out in her Dalmatian print, all-in-one pyjamas, arms and legs akimbo, Mr. Bunny tucked under one arm while soft snores reverberated around the room.
Creating a protective barrier between her and the doorway was the young woman slowly embedding herself under Laker’s skin. Her hair was fanned out around her on the pillow, one arm under Marley’s head while the other rested along her side, her hand cupping her bump. Dressed in a different pair of his jogging bottoms, and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, she was just about the most adorable sight he’d ever seen.
Laker smiled as he finally pulled himself away from the doorway, heading downstairs to the sofa he’d claimed as his own.
As he drifted between awake and asleep, Laker found himself imagining a petite silhouette wading through the shallow ocean waves on Eastbourne beach. Golden blonde locks with a hint of strawberry flew free in the breeze. A little girl with hair as rich as chocolate bounced along at her side, a baby stumbling along in the sand ahead.
Only as he slipped into a deep slumber did a man appear.
A man with dark brown hair and green eyes full of love for the trio he followed.
~ oOo ~
American Independence Day went uncelebrated in England, but when the Fourth of July arrived, Indie and Grace were awake in their respective houses without the help of alarms. Grace crept through the broken fence panel an hour before the sun met the horizon, letting herself in with the spare key. As she expected, Indie was there waiting.
Palms resting shoulder-width apart on the counter, eyes trained intently on the darkened garden through the kitchen window, she was still and silent as a statue.
“You, too?” Grace asked solemnly. Indie nodded as Grace slid a hand around her waist, resting it on the side of her bump. Their heads tilted in unison, strawberry-blonde locks twining with Grace’s auburn.
“I need a favour,” Indie said after a little while.
“Anything,” Grace promised, confused at first when Indie explained what she wanted, but understanding once she’d heard her reasoning.
The girls were just finishing their task two hours later when Reagan’s alarm told him it was time to get ready for work. He trudged downstairs in paint-splattered jeans, an old t-shirt, a hoodie, and thick socks to pad out his work boots. To his surprise, the girls were already in the kitchen when he tiptoed into the room, mindful not to wake Laker on the way past.
“Oh, you’re u—” He cut off abruptly when he caught sight of Indie.
She stood near the sink, drying the ends of her hair with a towel. Her hair—which
had been his strawberry-blonde when he left her last night, but was now Archie’s rich chocolate brown.
“Please don’t be mad,” she rushed out quietly, beseeching him with her eyes to listen before saying anything. He remained silent, so she continued. “I needed a change, Dad. I kept looking at myself in the mirror and seeing a victim. I don’t want to look like that anymore, does that make sense? I just need to be different.”
Reagan wasn’t sure what to make of the drastic change. Obviously, she looked the same otherwise, facially and still all-belly, but he was struggling to get his head around the darker locks surrounding her mother’s face.
Until he realised something crucial; she was different. She’d been different to what he’d expected to find when he boarded that plane to Montana two months ago, and she hadn’t stopped surprising him since then. Nothing about Indie was how he’d expected, except perhaps her fierce strength, so why should this be any different? Why should dying her hair be a big deal in light of all the other, far more life-changing, differences he’d already accepted?
“I like it,” he realised, saying it aloud as he thought it. “It suits you.”
Indie’s nervous wince transformed into a pleased smile, like a chrysalis into a butterfly. “You do?”
Reagan nodded, coughing gruffly. “I do.”
“All right, then.” Her relief was palpable. “Breakfast?”
Before he could respond either way, she was shoving her towel into the washing machine, pulling bacon from the fridge and bread from the cupboard. All Reagan could do was watch as, within a few minutes, bacon started to sizzle on the stove, and bread appeared on the table, buttered and spread with tomato sauce just the way he liked it. Not long after stepping into the kitchen, Reagan found himself at the table with a bacon sandwich in front of him beside a mug of steaming coffee.
“Uh, thanks, honey,” he murmured in bemusement, tucking in slowly.
Indie acknowledged his thanks with a dip of her head, re-joining Grace at the counter.
A pattern emerged as the other occupants of the house trickled into the kitchen. Marley and Carl-Roman were first, then Peter. He was followed by Laker as he staggered into the kitchen after rolling off the sofa and waking himself up. Carl-Roman bounded into his Pawpaw’s lap, Marley taking her place on Indie’s hip while Peter and Laker took seats at the table. It wasn’t until they were all sitting together, Reagan waiting with a secret smile on his lips, that the three newcomers noticed.
“You have new hair, Auntie Indie!” Carl-Roman cheered, wide-eyed and grinning.
Indie twisted with a nervous smile, tucking a lock of her ‘new hair’ behind her ear. “I do. Do you like it?”
Carl-Roman contemplated this for a moment, then nodded decisively. “It’s pretty.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, catching Laker’s stunned expression for a second before she resumed the breakfast preparations. He stared at her back—at the long, dark waves tumbling over her shoulders to the middle of her spine. It was pretty, like Carl-Roman said. It suited her. And when she spun to take something from the fridge, Marley content on her hip, their hair tangled together in the exact same shade. He wanted to take a photo to savour forever; they were like clones of each other.
Peter shot a quizzical look at Reagan when he realised the girls were silent again, moving in tandem to serve up breakfast for everybody. Eerily, they made no noise other than the quiet hissing of the bacon fat as it cooked.
“Thank you, girls,” Peter said quietly, watching as Grace set a bacon sandwich and his usual tea with two sugars in front of him.
Aware that Heidi and Pippa were at school, and Archie was working until ten a.m., the girls turned off the kitchen appliances and drifted out in the garden, Marley still clinging to her mother.
“Did something happen last night?” Reagan asked after a long, silent moment.
Laker glanced at him, peeling his eyes away from the French doors. “I don’t think so. Indie was up late last night, but she and Marley went back to bed and seemed fine.”
Feeling Reagan and Peter’s eyes on him, he tried desperately not to show his disappointment at missing out on what had become his and Indie’s new routine; making breakfast together was his favourite part of the day. He was disappointed, but he was also hurt she hadn’t included him.
“Could she have had a bad dream? I know Ines said Grace should start staying home more, but maybe we’re rushing it.”
The men looked at each other, their confusion tinged with sadness. They’d all been warned, of course, that the girls would have bad days as well as good ones. It was inevitable. Either way, nobody felt inclined to eat their breakfast when the girls were obviously upset.
Before leaving for work, Reagan and Peter poked their heads outside to say ‘goodbye’ to Indie, Marley, and Grace, rewarded only with waves and whispered ‘goodbyes,’ which left Laker to look after Carl-Roman and Chase—who was still sleeping upstairs—until eight, when they went to school and day-care.
Unsure what to do about the girls, but unwilling to force his company on them if they didn’t want it, Laker set Carl-Roman up in the front room with his trains and cartoons, and put Chase in his highchair with a wooden spoon while he set about doing the dishes. That he found himself washing and drying up alone was a testament to the girls’ obvious distraction, because nobody but the girls had done any kitchen chores since they arrived home.
Even though nobody was comfortable with the way Indie and Grace were insistent they do all the housework, Ines had told them it was simply their coping mechanism; something familiar. For the moment, she didn’t see anything wrong with them clinging to it in the wake of their rescue, so their family and friends were doing their best to come to terms with it. After all, they had more important things to worry about than the girls wanting to do the housework.
It could be worse, was the mantra they’d all adopted.
~ oOo ~
It was nearing lunchtime when the girls finally entered the kitchen. Carl-Roman and Chase had been dropped to school and day-care, so Laker returned to Reagan’s to keep a watchful eye on Indie and Grace; he was worried about them. All morning, he hung around in the kitchen on the laptop his grandparents had shipped to him when he called to apologise for his prolonged absence.
Enrico and Contessa—or Connie, as she preferred to be called—McKinley were kind, giving, compassionate people, and didn’t hesitate to send their well-wishes to both families. They also sent some of Laker’s possessions, Enrico telling him to stay in England as long as he needed before returning to Italy; he would look after his house for him.
Despite their very un-Italian surname, both Enrico and Contessa had been born and raised in Italy. Enrico’s mother was from Sicily, while his father was from England; they’d chosen an Italian forename to compliment his English surname. Contessa’s story was a little different. Before marrying Enrico and taking his name, she was a D’Amore—the third generation of D’Amore daughters.
Thirsty after a morning of rushing around, Laker lifted himself from the table, his legs protesting the long period of sitting still. His eyes swivelled around the garden, landing on the lounge chair the girls had occupied for the past few hours.
To his surprise, the chair was empty.
“Oh, shit,” Laker muttered, setting the glass in his hand on the counter with a thud.
“We’re here.”
He spun, cursing up a storm at the soft, slightly amused voice behind him. Grace’s lips curled into a smile, her red-rimmed eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Sorry for swearing, but, cazzo, you scared me!” he huffed, reaching up to tug at the peak of his cap.
Grace’s smile widened. “Sorry. It was getting windy, so we came in.”
Laker’s eyes swung around the kitchen, subconsciously searching for the girl who danced behind his eyelids every night while he slept.
“She’s gone for a bath, with Marley,” Grace said, knowing who he was looking for without hi
m having to speak.
“Oh, okay.” It was hard for Laker to hide his disappointment. Judging by Grace’s smug half-smile, he’d failed miserably. “Do you want a drink? Something to eat? You haven’t had anything today.”
“No, thank you, I’m good.” Her smile fell as she spoke and took a seat on the sofa. Laker suspected she was far from ‘good.’ He joined her hesitantly, grinning when she rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”
“Hey, I just don’t want to upset you. It seems like something’s done a pretty good job of that already.”
Grace turned to face him with narrowed eyes; Laker cursed his lack of mental filter.
“Sorry, I need to work on my brain-to-mouth filter.”
“Quit apologising, you’re fine.”
Laker nodded contritely. Grace cocked her head to one side, now amused. “I sorta see why Indie likes having you around so much.”
It took a few seconds for her words to sink in but when they finally did, Grace couldn’t help but return the so-very-handsome smile he graced her with. He’d trimmed his beard that morning in an effort to keep busy; the overall combination of his neatly trimmed facial hair, the messy strands sticking out from beneath his trademark baseball cap—she was sure it had been surgically attached to his head—and the grin on his face was downright indecent.
For Grace, a girl who’d spent years silently observing while Indie looked out for her, it wasn’t hard to see there was something developing between Indie and Laker. Something stronger than all of them, something unstoppable. Their bond was stronger than a simple friendship, that was for sure. It was the only reason Grace had agreed to start sleeping in her own home again, because if it weren’t for Laker’s presence, she wasn’t sure Indie would be coping as well as she was. Days had passed without any signs of a panic attack; it had almost been a week since a nightmare disturbed her sleep, though Grace knew she’d come perilously close to fending off a panic attack earlier that morning. Goosebumps erupted all over her body at the thought of the date.