TDF Short Stories

1. Puddles

Content note: This story deals with grief and loss (specifically, a family that has lost a child).

Years ago

Sleet pours down outside the therapy office window, and Jim Bond sighs and puts down his book. It's not quite rain, not quite snow, just cold wet stuff that'll turn into sludge on the streets, muddied and blackened with dirt, run over by car after car as the drivers rush to who-knows-where.

Jim scowls. It's technically spring now, but it still feels like winter, barren and ugly and cold.

He takes a deep breath. His son will be coming out of therapy, and Jim has to put aside his own bitterness. Jim can grieve in his own time, be sour in his own time. But Jim doesn't want to be grumpy in front of Adam. Sad, sure, grumpy, no. His son is suffering enough.

The door opens, and Dr. Roberts walks out into the waiting room where Jim sits.

"Adam's going to finish his drawing," Dr. Roberts says. She sits down on the couch next to Jim. "In the meantime, I thought I'd check in with you."

Jim takes a deep breath. "How are things going?"

"Well, he's still very angry, and that's natural. It'll take time for Adam to open up to me, and it's pretty clear that he doesn't trust adults after what happened."

Jim lets his face fall into his hands. "Of course he doesn't. How could he? After someone he trusted took Mimi away from him, and I couldn't stop her, and now she's gone..."

Dr. Roberts places a firm hand on Jim's shoulder. "You're spiraling. Stop."

Jim takes a deep breath.

Dr. Roberts continues. "Evidence shows that children can and do recover from traumatic events, especially with the right love and support. Therapy will help him. Your presence will help him. He clearly still trusts you, and I don't think he blames you for the loss of Mimi."

It's funny that Adam doesn't, because Jim sure blames himself. Fathers are supposed to protect their daughters.

But Mimi is dead. Toddler bed empty, stuffed animals sitting un-kissed, floor free from messes, coloring books half colored. Once Jim absent-mindedly started to peel off one of the stickers that Mimi had stuck on a chair, but then he realized she'd never touch another sticker again, and he couldn't bear to take it off, couldn't bear anything anymore...

But Jim needs to focus, now. On Adam. The remaining child. The one he has to raise right.

Dr. Roberts has noticed him zoning out. "Nobody blames you," she says. "You couldn't have foreseen what would happen. No one could. And now you're doing everything you can for your son."

She shifts gears. "Adam has been more willing to talk while we draw together. I think it's a very good sign. He saw me drawing one of my dogs and he started asking questions. He says he wants a dog someday."

Adam wants a dog someday. That's the first time Jim has heard of Adam expressing anything about the future. Adam has been too wrapped up in the past, crying about little things, exploding into shouting fits over things Mimi won't be able to do ever again, replaying the day of Mimi's death over and over, drawing dark and ugly pictures of death and broken dolls in meticulous detail.

"Adam wants something," Jim says, almost laughing. "Adam wants something for the future."

"I know. I'm happy about it too," Dr. Roberts says. "He did seem serious about the dog. If it seems like it might work with your family, either soon or down the road... consider it. Adam could use some companionship, and some responsibility."