Chapter 8 - Past the Moon and Back
The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the grass of Pullen Park. The air was soft, filled with the gentle scent of pine needles, sweet clover, and blooming honeysuckle.
A hundred yards away, sitting on a blanket near the edge of the quiet pond, Lily was laughing.
She wore a bright yellow summer dress, her small canvas shoes kicking at the clover as she drew pictures with colored chalk on a sketchpad. Beside her sat Clara, pointing at a family of ducks swimming gracefully across the sparkling water.
Lily's recovery had not been fast, and it had not been easy. There were still nights when she woke up gasping from bad dreams, nights when I had to sit beside her bed for hours holding her small hand until her breathing slowed. But with time, therapy, and an ocean of fierce, protective love, the light had come back into her eyes.
She was no longer the quiet, frozen child hiding behind my leg on Thanksgiving night. She was a child who smiled, who played, who knew with absolute certainty that her father would tear down the world before letting anyone hurt her.
I walked over to the blanket and sat down beside her on the grass.
"Look, Daddy!" Lily squealed, holding up her sketchpad. She had drawn a large, bright orange fox standing under a yellow sun, with two figures holding hands beside it—a tall man and a little girl in a yellow dress.
"That's beautiful, bug," I said, smiling as I pulled her into a warm hug. "That's the best drawing you've ever made."
"Where's Foxie?" she asked, looking around the blanket.
I reached into my canvas bag and pulled out the worn orange stuffed animal.
A month ago, with the permission of the district attorney's office after the trial concluded, the original toy had been returned to us. I had spent an evening carefully opening the seam in its paw, replacing the old, traumatized recording chip with a brand-new, high-definition module, and sewing the soft orange fabric back together with gold thread.
I held the fox out to her. "Press his paw, Lily."
She pressed the soft plush paw with her small thumb.
First came the sweet, familiar voice of her mother, recorded four years ago before the illness took her, clear and loving: "Mommy loves you past the moon, my little princess..."
And then, seamlessly fading in right behind Sarah's voice, came my own voice, recorded fresh and strong: "...and Daddy loves you forever, safe and always."
Lily pressed the toy against her cheek, letting out a soft, happy sigh as she watched the ducks glide across the golden water.
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"Mommy heard me, didn't she, Daddy?" Lily whispered softly, looking up at the blue sky above us.
"Yes, she did, bug," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close against my side as the warm summer breeze rustled through the trees. "Mommy heard you. And so did I."
