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Tavish stirred from dreamless sleep at the whisper of shifting covers, the creak of the mattress dipping, and the stifled movements of a small shape curling up next to him. Two years ago he would have leapt into the air and reached for the bottle that was no doubt on his nightstand, but how quickly parenthood smothered all mercenary reflex.
Tavish exhaled with the resignation of consciousness. He reached across the small shape on his bed to flick on the lamp, blinking away the spots from his vision as his eye adjusted to the conical splash of light revealing the world, his daughter.
She lay curled with her back to him, limbs tucked into herself, foetal. He needed to buy her new clothes. Her night shirt was getting too tight around her shoulders. Everything about her moved so quickly; her bones, her mind, they grew with the urgency of a rodent’s heartbeat. Still, a feather-soft tenderness enveloped him knowing that Francine wasn’t quite old enough to be embarrassed from slipping into her dad’s bed. Not yet.
Tavish propped his head with one hand and gently stroked her hair with the other. “You alright, Fran? Nightmare?”
“No,” she said. “Just thinking.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
Francine pulled the covers tighter around herself, fabric rustling in the way all noise politely muffles itself out of respect for the night time. She breathed out. “Just like… existence. And, afterwards.”
Tavish tilted his head. Wasn’t she a wee bit young to be having a mid-life crisis? Then again, all coiling and labyrinthine concepts were natural destinations for a mind like Francine’s. It leapt and scurried, examining each bit of information again and again like a squirrel scrutinising a nut. She treated everything with precise, academic focus. It was how she treated moving into a real house, starting school, joining society. All was faced with military concentration, as if her life depended on it.
And now she was thinking about death.
“What brought this on?” Tavish said.
She shrugged. “Just thinking.”
He brushed her arm. “Francine, I’ll always be there for you.”
“But you won’t. You’ll die one day. You’re old.”
“Not cutting me any slack I see,” he chuckled softly. Francine didn’t.
Tavish shimmied closer and curled himself around Francine. The chill of her little body always surprised him. She instinctively backed herself into Tavish’s chest, letting the warmth radiate into her.
Tavish said, “I’ve told you the stories about the Doine Maithe, aye? When people pass on, they—”
“But it’s not real.” Francine’s hands clenched against her chest. “They’re just stories. Things people say to make themselves feel better. I’ve seen people die, and… It doesn’t happen like that.”
Each word felt like a sharp kick to the stomach. Tavish frowned. She was right. She was getting too old to be fed pretty certainties. She was too pragmatic. But what could anyone tell a child who's been taught to kill from the age of six about death?
Tavish sighed. “The truth is, Fran, no one knows. That’s just how it is. There’ll be times where you cannae help thinking about it and getting a bit sad. It’s like the tide, aye? You’re all fine one moment and the next...”
“The tide rolls in,” she finished. “And you feel cold.”
“Aye, exactly,” he murmured. “It never feels good, but it’s not something you can run away from either, not completely.”
He knew that all too well. Escapism could be a vice, and an addictive one to boot. When Tavish knew he was serious about adopting Francine, he realised he needed to get serious about himself. He knew first hand what it was like to live without parents, and he personally knew the double-edged sword that was getting a second chance. Racked with doubt, never knowing if you were good enough. He needed to make sure Fran always knew she was good enough, which meant being a total of twenty-two whole months on the wagon. It was never easy, but it was always worth it. Because it was for his wee Fran.
“So what do I do?” her small voice said.
Tavish tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then gently caressed her shoulder. “You surround yourself with good people. Understand that you’re never alone feeling like this. Every single person on Earth goes through the same thing. So having folks you’re close to, whom you can trust, whose company you enjoy, that’s what makes all the difference. It’s what makes this whole bloody ordeal bearable, eh? That’s why I have Janey, why I’m friends with Mick, and why you have me.” He planted a kiss on her cheek.
Francine remained still, mulling it over. “So, make friends so you don’t die alone.”
“Aye.”
Francine’s shoulders loosened, unwounding herself from her mental coil as she thought. She then said, “Okay. I think I can do that. That’s actionable.”
Tavish made a noise. He shoved his face into the crook of his elbow in a brave attempt to stop himself whooping from laughter at one in the morning.
Francine turned around for the first time and looked at him. “What’s so funny?”
With great effort, Tavish managed to catch his breath and calm his shoulders from shaking as he wiped a tear from his eye. “Nothing, nothing. It’s just— You’re very good, Fran. You’re perfect, you’ll be just fine.” He wrapped his arms around Francine and kissed her head. “I love you so much, I’m so proud of you.”
Perplexed, but not minding the affection, Francine snuggled into his chest and murmured, “I love you too.”