How do I tell her?

“I’m almost home” she quivered over the phone, glancing into the rearview mirror hoping the princess was still asleep.

“Okay, I’ll be waiting.” Wesley replied. Normally after a visit, her anxiety was in high gear, but even this short exchange seemed different to him. Unsure why, he just followed the established routine.

Put the dogs outside. Pour some lemonade over ice and put it on her marbled coaster next to ‘her’ spot on the couch. Open the garage door and wait. He always opted out of the weekly dinner visits with her parents, preferring to keep their relationship on major holidays. This routine has been perfected. She knew that if she called him at the stoplight just before turning into their subdivision, he would have enough time, but not too much. 

She pulled the black Tahoe into the garage. Wesley opened the back door and picked Zadie up out of her princess booster seat. Zadie wrapped her arms around his neck as he climbed the stairs, winding down the hall to her room. Pulling her shoes off usually woke her up enough to steal a goodnight kiss as he pulled the covers up around her shoulders.

Walking back down stairs he switched hats from dad to confidant. His first site from the stairs was always Josephine sitting on the couch sipping her lemonade staring into space. But not today. He waited a few minutes, thinking she must just be in the restroom. When the toilet didn’t flush, he began to wonder. And wandered. Right back to the garage where he found her in the same place , the same position as he left her some fifteen minutes earlier.

Like a statue, her hands still on the wheel, car running, unblinking.

“Come on J, let’s get you inside.”

Nothing.

“Babe?”

She didn’t move, fearing she would lose complete control the second her muscle fibers twitched.

“Jos”

She slowly turned her head towards him. His heart sank like the Titanic. In over a decade, he has only seen her this upset when her grandfather passed away. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t move. He leaned over, clicked the seatbelt and turned off the car. He would have wondered about her more if the garage door had been down and the car running. Wesley wiggled his arm under her lower back. Once again, “Babe?”

Still in a trance, “Huh?”

“Let’s get you inside.” She nodded and melted in his arms. Half leading, half carrying the petite frame towards her lemonade. Kicking off her shoes, pulling her legs into a ball and covering with the knitted cashmere blanket in one fail swoop. He plopped down beside her.

“J?” inferring if she was ready to talk. Her eyes were still in Timbuktu. He just waited for her to return.

“It was real.”

“Oh?” he questioned.

“The recurring memory. It was real. And the ending is unbelievable.” Her breath became as shallow as a puddle in the desert. 

He knew which memory she referred to. Her dad was tickling her and wouldn’t stop despite her pleas. “Okay, take a deep breath.” Pausing for her to comply, “Okay take it one step at a time and tell me.”

“Grammers made Z’s favorite plate of spaghetti and meatballs, extra cheese, garlic bread on her princess plate. Needless to say, Z needed to change clothes after dinner. As I helped mom with the dishes, dad helped her wash her face and change into her jammies. Before he could put her slippers on, she was off to the toy closet for the train tracks, demanding Poppers sit on the floor with her to play.”

Josephine took a deep breath, closed her eyes and shook her head. Trying to will a different outcome for the memory. 

“As mom and I were rounding the corner into the living room with the tray of cookies, a mug of milk, and three mugs of coffee, we could hear squeals of laughter. At first it made me smile. Then as we entered, I froze. The laughter continued. I could vaguely hear mom say something as I stared. Then dad yelled my name. I dropped the tray. My eyes had to be deceiving me.”

Wesley’s muscles tensed and Josephine noticed his fists clenched.

“No, no, nothing was happening.” He relaxed a bit.

She continued. “It was her. Then it was me. Then it was her. Then it was me again. Then it was her again.”

Wes looked puzzled.

“Dad was tickling Z.” She paused again. Trying desperately to remain composed and finish the story.

“For my memory, it wasn’t just tickling. He tickled me, but there was a reason I kept pleading with him to stop.”

“Oh Babe, I had hoped that wasn’t the case, I was afraid it was, but I hoped to be wrong.”

Continuing as if he hadn’t said a word, knowing she must finish soon. “It overlapped. What happened twenty-five years ago and what happened tonight. It was the same memory.

“I can’t let her have that memory. I can’t…. I must protect her. I must keep her from that fate.” Her speech had become frantic.

In a low slower tone, he asked “What do you want to do?”

“How do I tell her she can’t see her grandparents again? How do I tell her she won’t get any more books from Grammers? How do I tell her she won’t get any more baseball hats from Poppers? How do I tell her Poppers is an incestual monster? How do I tell her she won’t see her cousins again? How do I tell her she will get half the Christmas presents she used to? How do I tell her she won’t see Terry the Terrior? How do I…”

He interrupted her, “Babe, take a breath.”

She sobbed in and out.

“Again.”

She sobbed in and out, a little slower this time.

“And again.”

So many nights he has repeated this action with her. She held her breath during an anxiety attack as if that action alone could curb the emotions.

“Slowly this time.”

She was finally focused on her breath.

“Okay, let’s get a cup of coffee and walk through our next steps.”

She was exhausted, and new the coffee wouldn’t stop her from falling asleep if she wanted to sleep. 

As he carried her favorite blue mug sprinkled with daisies, he answered her question. “And WE will tell her. You are not alone.”