Chương 13
His face had gone blank in the way children's faces sometimes did when they were standing too close to something they did not have words for.
“I brought Ellie.”
“Why Ellie?”
“She cried.”
I felt something cold move through me.
He continued before I could interrupt.
“Mom woke up when Ellie cried.”
“Was this before the fire?”
“A lot.”
“How long?”
“I don't know.”
“Days?”
He frowned.
“More.”
“Weeks?”
He shrugged again.
I stopped.
Every instinct in me wanted facts.
Dates.
Names.
Whether their father knew.
Whether a doctor knew.
Whether Delaney knew.
But Leo was not a witness sitting beneath fluorescent lights.
He was six years old, in borrowed pajamas, awake after ten o'clock in a stranger's living room.
I looked at his hand still resting on Maya.
“You don't have to tell me more tonight.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because you're tired.”
“You need to know.”
“I can know tomorrow.”
“What if you forget?”
“I won't.”
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then he reached toward the pizza box and touched the folded napkin in his pocket, checking that it was still there.
“Mom forgot things.”
“I know.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
The word was sharp.
“You don't.”
I let it stand.
He lay down beside Maya without another word.
Within fifteen minutes, his eyes closed.
His hand did not leave her shoulder.
I sat awake until nearly midnight.
At eleven fourteen, I texted Delaney.
Need to talk in morning about something Leo said regarding mom being difficult to wake before fire.
I read the message four times before sending it.
I did not include my guesses.
I did not write drugs.
I did not write neglect.
I did not write overdose.
A sentence from Rachel returned to me.
Accurate information.
At eleven seventeen, Delaney replied.
Do not question him further tonight.
Document exact words as best you can.
I found a yellow legal pad in the kitchen junk drawer.
I wrote what Leo had said.
Not what I thought he meant.
Then I crossed out one sentence because I had slipped into interpretation.
Mother may have been unconscious frequently.
That was not his language.
I replaced it with:
“She was tired a lot.”
“She didn't wake up.”
“I used to wake her.”
“If I didn't, nobody did.”
The act of writing it down made me feel disloyal.
It also made me feel responsible.
Both feelings stayed.
At twelve thirty-eight, Ellie woke.
I changed her diaper without turning on the overhead light.
That part went better.
The bottle did not.
She drank an ounce, stopped, cried, drank again, then spit half of it down the front of my shirt.
I whispered, “Excellent.”
From the blanket pile, Mrs. Ellis said, “Burp her.”
I nearly dropped the bottle.
“You're awake?”
“I am sixty-eight years old and sleeping on a recliner.”
“You're sixty-nine next month.”
She opened one eye.
“You remembered.”
“I remember threats.”
“Burp the baby.”
I did.
Ellie produced a belch large enough to earn respect.
Mrs. Ellis closed her eye.
“There.”
“How did you know?”
“I raised two children and forty-seven licensed daycare kids.”
“Forty-seven at once?”
“Go to sleep, Bernard.”
I sat with Ellie on my chest until her breathing softened.
I had not held a baby for more than ten consecutive minutes before that week.
Now I knew the exact weight of her head against my collarbone.
I knew she preferred turning left.
I knew her right fist stayed closed when she was tired.
I knew none of those things mattered if I failed her in larger ways.
At two seventeen, Ben woke crying because he could not find the wooden bowl.
It was beneath his blanket.
At three oh six, June kicked me in the ribs in her sleep.
At four twelve, Maya whispered, “Smoke.”
I was awake before I understood why.
She was sitting upright.
Her eyes were open but unfocused.
“Smoke.”
Leo woke instantly.
“No smoke.”
She started breathing too fast.
“No smoke, Maya.”
He grabbed her shoulders.
I moved closer.
“Leo, easy.”
“She needs me.”
“I know.”
“No smoke,” he repeated.
Maya shoved at him.
Then she screamed.
The sound brought everyone awake.
Ben began crying.
June crawled backward into the couch.
Ellie started wailing.
For several seconds, I had no idea who to touch first.
That was the moment I had been warned about.
One child screaming.
Another crying.
A baby awake.
No training exercise.
No courtroom.
No adult standing beside me with a checklist.
I picked Maya because she was hitting the air with both hands.
“Don't touch me.”
I stopped.
Leo tried again.
She slapped him.
He froze.
Her face changed immediately.
“Leo.”
He looked stunned.
She started crying harder.
“I didn't.”
“I know.”
“I didn't.”
“I know.”
She reached for him.
He backed away.
That hurt her more.
Mrs. Ellis switched on the hallway light and said, “Nobody's hurt.”
Her voice was calm but not soft.
“Everybody stay where you are.”
It helped.
Not magically.
But it gave the room edges.
I crouched beside Maya without touching her.
“You're in my living room.”
She cried.
“The fire isn't here.”
She covered her ears.
“I'm not going to touch you.”
Leo stood near the couch rubbing his cheek.
I wanted to comfort him.
I also wanted him not to become the person who had to fix this.
“Leo, can you sit with Ben?”
He looked at Maya.
“She needs—”
“I've got her.”
His eyes flashed.
“No.”
“I need you to help Ben.”
The sentence was out before I recognized what I had done.
I had reassigned him.
Still helping.
Still responsible.
I closed my eyes briefly.
“No.”
Leo stared.
“Actually, forget that.”
Mrs. Ellis was already beside Ben.
I pointed toward the kitchen.
“Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I need water.”
He frowned.
“You can get water.”
“Yes.”
“I don't want to.”
“Neither do I.”
He almost argued.
Then he followed.
May you like
In the kitchen, I filled a glass and drank half of it.
Leo stood barefoot beside the refrigerator.
