daughter for things to be put right. For restoration.
Tom glances down at the bird in his hand. It is barely moving. His heart is heavy, but he registers that Gaia is silently pleading with him to revive the nestling and return it to its mother. He catches himself right as he’s about to say something about how the mother bird will likely reject the bird anyway, given that it’s now bathed in his scent, but even as he opens his mouth he knows that such information will wound Gaia. For her the world is still a place where tragedy can be outdone by triumph. Where sorrow can be quenched by noble acts, and the long shadow of death can be outshone by love’s light. He is duty bound to protect the world in which Gaia lives, this world of untarnished hope and unicorns, for as long as he can.
“Let’s take this fella into the house,” he says. “Get him some water.”
Inside, Gaia sets about sourcing a cardboard box, which she lines with a cashmere scarf, a Ping-Pong ball in case the nestling needs a toy, a Peppa Pig figurine, and a piece of Christmas tinsel.
“What’s the tinsel for?” Tom asks.
“Decoration,” Gaia replies earnestly. “To make her bed pretty.”
“What’s Peppa Pig for?”
“In case Dora gets lonely.”
“Dora?”
“That’s what I’ve named her.”
“Ah,” he says. “After the cartoon.” He thinks about the endless reruns of Dora the Explorer, and the map song that has to be the worst earworm of all time.
“No, Daddy,” Gaia says, offended. “Not after Dora the Explorer! After Dora Carrington. The surrealist painter, remember?”
“Oh. OK.”
He bites back the argument that the bird most definitely is not Gaia’s new pet, and they don’t even know if it’s a boy bird or a girl bird.
“Can you keep her in your bedroom, Daddy?” Gaia says suddenly. “I can’t keep her in my bedroom.”
“No, no,” Tom says, distracted. He’s trying to google instructions on feeding a nestling, but Gaia is suddenly tugging on his sleeve, relentlessly trying to get his attention. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. I can’t keep her in my bedroom, Daddy.”
“Stop it,” he says, jerking away. As always, the stab of guilt when he sees her face fall. He pulls her into a hug. “Sorry, pudding. Why can’t you keep her in your bedroom? Wait, of course you’re not keeping her in your bedroom . . .”
“She has to stay in your bedroom, Daddy, because the Sad Lady doesn’t like your bedroom . . .”
His head hurts. What is she saying?
“. . . She only likes my bedroom, Daddy, but she’ll scare Dora, I know she will.”
“What are you talking about? What lady? Do you mean Maren?”
She stares up at him solemnly and shakes her head.
“Sophie?”
“No, Daddy. The Sad Lady doesn’t have a name.”
He frowns. “Right. So, what does she look like?”
“I don’t know because I don’t have my glasses on in bed. I don’t think she has any eyes.”
“Blimey.”
“She frightens me, Daddy.”
“Sweetheart, I know you’re sad about Mummy. I know you’re really, really sad.”
Gaia nods and sniffs.
He notices her teddy, Louis, on the table nearby. “How’s Louis feeling these days?”
She turns and looks at the teddy, then picks him up and straightens the trousers he’s wearing. Tom doesn’t remember the teddy having trousers before.
“Louis is scared.”
“OK. Do you want to ask Louis why he’s scared?”
“I don’t need to ask him, I already know.”
“Why, then?”
She considers this. “Well, he’s a little bit excited that we found Dora, but he’s worried in case she dies because that would be sad . . .”
His attention turns back to the bird. Of course, the bird. It’ll make her feel better if they somehow keep it going.
“. . . and Louis doesn’t like the Sad Lady either and he’s scared of her, too.”
He sighs. “OK, what Sad Lady? Who is she?”
“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “She sometimes comes into the house at night and she looks very sad. She makes me very scared because she just comes into my room and stands at the window. I think she’s a ghost.”
He recalls Gaia’s night terrors. “OK. These are dreams, sweetheart.”
“They’re not dreams, Daddy . . .”
“Maybe we can have you move rooms or something?”
She shrugs, disheartened that he won’t listen. “I don’t know.”
He straightens. A small feeling of pride at having achieved something. “And now, we need to feed this little bird. We need dog kibble, boiled eggs, and sugar water.”
“What’s dog kibble?” she asks, her attention moving back to the little bird that needs her love