“So, my father,” Sloane said from the chair next to him. The wind caught her short brown hair and pinked her cheeks. She was probably freezing in her cotton sundress. “That’s a complicated question. My family tree forks a lot. Too much extramarital forking, you know?”
The others chuckled—Sloane was by far the youngest person at the wellness retreat. Teagan kept a suspicious eye on the other adult men in the group, but so far they’d shown an inclination only to baby her and laugh at her jokes.Sloane held up one finger until she was sure everyone’s attention was on her.
“Legally speaking, my dad was Teagan’s dad. Arnold Van Zijl. It was in the divorce decree and everything. He didn’t ever ask for a paternity test, because oh my God would that have been embarrassing for him. But, you know, I didn’t think of him as my dad.”
Teagan looked away. Darcy was methodically making her way closer. She occasionally turned her head to look at the group but was surely too far away to hear anything over the noise of the mower, which was a faint blessing.
“Biologically speaking”—Sloane held up a second finger —“my father was a Danish artist showing at the Whitney Biennial. Married. Not to my mom, sadly. I haven’t seen him since my conception.”
Everyone laughed politely, excluding Teagan, who winced. God. Get him out of this therapy session. He didn’t see how talking about old, painful drama made anyone want to drinkless.
“I guess in, like, every way that matters”—Sloane held up a third finger—“my dad was Teagan?” She ducked her head to her chest as though unsure how he’d respond.
There was a round of soft, appreciative chuckles, more eyes now on Teagan. Discomfort squirmed through his stomach. He’d give anything not to have this talk in front of a dozen strangers.
“Yeah, in every photo until I’m, like,five, Teagan’s wearing me in a Baby Bjorn,” Sloane followed, mouth curling up when he didn’t object to the characterization. “I don’t know how I learned to walk.”
It wasn’t the first time someone had praised him for acting like her dad, and for a few years,so good with the babyhadbeen an accomplishment he’d been happy to wear pinned to his chest, like perfect grades or sports trophies. But what he’d long since realized was that there was a reason that nature did not turn twelve-year-old boys into parents: he’d done a terrible job of it. Look at him! Look at her! He’d never gotten married or had his own kids, and Sloane was in rehab before she’d even graduated from college.
Teagan glanced over his shoulder at the tall grass Darcy had not yet reached. He entertained a momentary fantasy of causing a diversion and army crawling away from the conversation. If he was Sloane, he’d be angry. At the men who’d declined the opportunity to be her father. At their mother, who’d barely tried to replace them. And at Teagan, for failing to fill that gap.
Dr. Goedert steepled his fingers in his lap and leaned in, eyes sparking with interest.
“We haven’t discussed parentification yet. That’s a dynamic where a parent will encourage an older child to take on an outsized responsibility for rearing a younger one. Teagan, do you feel like your parents forced you to raise your sister?”
“No, not at all,” Teagan lied, trying to convey to the psychologist with his expression that the question was a terrible one. What did he expect Teagan to say, right there in front of Sloane? No, he hadn’t volunteered to be responsible for an entire other person. At twelve he’d wanted a puppy—he remembered monitoring the widening girth of the neighbor’s Irish setter, who was rumored to be in trouble via an adventuresome poodle-schnauzer mix—not a baby sister. But that wasn’t Sloane’s fault. Teagan tried to smile at her. “Good thing you were a cute baby.”
“I was, wasn’t I?” Sloane said contentedly. She turned toher indulgent audience. “We never fought. Some of my friends had dads who were, like, super mean, or who yelled or took their phones away for stupid stuff, but Teagan was the opposite. People thought he was this tragically young teen dad who was somehow stepping up.”
“Because your mother wasn’t present?” Dr. Goedert asked.
“Oh no, Teagan was the one who came to field hockey games and stuff like that, especially once he’d graduated college and came back to New York. Mom was always busy at the foundation or doing events.”
The psychologist narrowed his eyes at Teagan. “Did you feel like there was anyone you could go to for help with Sloane while you were growing up? What about now?” he pressed.
Teagan would rather have fought another bear than admit to Sloane and a dozen strangers that he’d floundered through it all. How did that help her? Sloane needed to know he was there for her, not wonder if he was seething with secret resentment. Teagan suspected that the bullshit in this program didn’t end with Rachel’s healing crystals.
“It wasn’t like our mother was never there,” Teagan protested. She’d been there. Usually passed out in her bedroom with the door locked, but home most nights. “Now Sloane’s in college. And self-aware enough to check herself in here.”
Teagan looked away at Darcy again. She was driving closer, nearly drowning out the noise of the conversation. Or maybe that was the buzzing in his own ears. He wanted away from this.
“And whatever Sloane needs when she gets out of here, I’ll make sure she gets it,” he said when it appeared that Dr. Goedert was still waiting for more of an answer. The other members of the group smiled and nodded.
“Thanks, Pops,” Sloane said, squinting at him.
Teagan exhaled, thinking that momentary crisis was averted, but Dr. Goedert held up a hand to forestall the next speaker.
“Teagan, you’re very good at deflecting attention from your own needs to those of others,” he remarked. “That’s common with children of alcoholics.”
“Thank you,” Teagan said modestly.
“That wasn’t necessarily a compliment—” The rest of his words were cut off by Darcy’s approach. Like a World War I ace on a slow-motion bombing run, she leaned in to scrape the edges of the fire pit area, showering Dr. Goedert with grass clippings. It could have been unintentional, but Teagan saw the smirk she cast back over her shoulder as she rumbled off toward the woods again as well as the decisive swing of the braided pigtails she’d caught her hair in today.
Teagan took a long swig of hot bark water to cover his own smirk as the psychologist sputtered and brushed himself off. She’d rescued him a second time.
“Excuse me,” Dr. Goedert said, standing and glowering at Darcy’s retreating back on the mower. “Let me tell her to do that after lunch—”
“I’ve got it,” Teagan said, seizing the opportunity to escape like a rope tossed to a drowning sailor. He jumped to his feet.
