“She'd been trying to tell him he was sick.”
I stared.
“Before Walmart?”
She nodded.
“He'd been having discomfort and unusual fatigue for several days. He didn't realize how serious it might be.”
I looked toward the hospital room.
Margaret's eyes filled.
“He thought it was stress or indigestion. He kept telling her Daddy was okay.”
I swallowed.
She continued.
“And when they were shopping, she noticed how much he was sweating.”
I remembered the gray face.
The hand moving toward his chest.
The strange weak smile.
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“She tried to tell him again.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered, “He didn't understand how frightened she was.”
I looked toward the door.
I knew that feeling.
I had misunderstood my own daughter for years.
Not because she couldn't speak.
But because I had been too buried in myself to listen.
Margaret placed one hand on my arm.
“Please don't let him blame himself for this.”
I nodded slowly.
“I'll try.”
Then she opened the door.
Daniel Bennett was sitting upright in a hospital bed.
He was pale.
There were medical monitors nearby.
A blanket covered his legs.
He looked smaller than the man I'd seen standing in Walmart, though I knew part of that was simply the hospital setting.
A six-year-old girl sat in a chair beside him, holding a purple tablet.
Her light-brown hair was tied into a loose ponytail.
She wore a yellow T-shirt with a cartoon dinosaur on the front.
When she saw me, her entire face changed.
She looked at my vest.
Then at the missing snap.
Her eyes widened.
She immediately reached for her tablet.
Touched several buttons.
And held it up.
The electronic voice said, “BIG MOTORCYCLE MAN.”
Daniel began laughing.
It was a weak laugh.
But it filled the room.
I stood in the doorway.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Then Nora smiled.
She held out her arms.
And I realized that the most frightening little girl I'd ever met was also the happiest sight I'd seen in years.
I walked toward her.
Lowered myself carefully onto one knee.
And smiled.
“Hello again, sweetheart.”
She reached toward my vest.
Then touched the place where the snap was missing.
Her expression became thoughtful.
She looked up.
Then touched her tablet.
The voice said, “BROKEN.”
I laughed.
“Yeah. You broke it.”
Her mouth opened in a silent giggle.
Then she touched another button.
“SORRY.”
My chest tightened.
I shook my head.
“Don't you dare be sorry for that.”
She stared.
I pointed toward the broken snap.
“That little piece of metal can stay missing as long as it wants.”
She smiled.