Chapter 5
We named the dog Barnacle.
He was a rescue. Part golden retriever, part something scruffy. Three legs — he'd lost one in an accident. The shelter said he was shy, that he'd been abused.
Chloe picked him immediately. "He looks like he needs a friend," she said.
Barnacle and Chloe became inseparable. He slept at the foot of her bed. He followed her from room to room. When she had nightmares — and she still had them, often — he'd lick her face until she calmed down.
I started working from home. I'd quit the traveling job. I took a lower-paying position at a local firm. Money was tighter. But I was there. Every morning. Every night. Every school drop-off and pickup. Every parent-teacher conference.
Chloe started therapy. Dr. Patel. A child psychologist with a soft voice and a room full of sand trays and dolls. Chloe didn't talk much at first. She played. She drew. She built houses out of blocks and then knocked them down.
Slowly, she started talking. About Doreen. About Tyler. About the closet. About the fear. And slowly, the nightmares got shorter. The flinching got less. The silence got smaller.
Tyler wrote to Chloe. A letter, in crayon, dictated to his foster care worker.
I'm sorry I was mean. I hope you are okay. My foster mom makes pancakes on Saturdays. They are not as good as your dad's.
I showed it to Chloe. She read it three times. Then she looked at me.
"Can I write back?" she said.
"Do you want to?"
She thought. "He was mean. But he was scared too. Like Barnacle."
So she wrote back. Short. Careful.
I forgive you. But you have to be nice now. Barnacle says hi.
That was Chloe. Forgiving. Not forgetting. But forgiving.
Tyler was doing better. His foster family was good. He was in therapy too. His grades improved. He made friends. He still had a long way to go, but he was getting there.
One Saturday, he came to visit. Lorraine, the social worker, brought him. He stood on our porch, nervous, holding a drawing he'd made.
Chloe answered the door. She looked at him. He looked at her.
"Hi," Tyler said. He held out the drawing. "I made this for you. It's a horse. I know you like horses."
Chloe took the drawing. She studied it. Then she said, "It's good. Do you want to see Barnacle?"
Tyler's face lit up. "Yes."
They played in the backyard for an hour. Barnacle between them, tail wagging. I watched from the kitchen window. I didn't interfere. I let them figure it out.
When Tyler left, Chloe came inside. She was quiet for a while. Then she said, "He's not so bad anymore."
"No," I said. "He's not."
"Can he come back?"
I looked at my daughter. This child who'd been hurt, who'd been silent, who'd been locked in closets and called names and told her father didn't love her. And here she was, opening her heart to the boy who'd hurt her.
"If you want him to," I said.
May you like
"I do," she said. "He needs a friend. Like Barnacle did."
I hugged her. I held her tight. And I thought — maybe, just maybe, we were going to be okay.
