Chương 4
Maybe they were right.
"I understand enough to know she shouldn't be alone," I said.
Dana was quiet again.
"Three o'clock."
When the call ended, I sat in my chair for a long time.
I should have been thinking about liability.
That was what my old self would have done.
I should have called my attorney.
I should have asked what exposure my company faced.
I should have created distance.
Instead, I opened a new document on my computer and typed one sentence.
Lily Carter.
I stared at the name.
Then I deleted it.
Then I typed it again.
I had no idea why.
At three, I was back at the hospital.
Lily was sitting at a small table coloring.
She looked up immediately.
"You came from work."
I nodded.
"How did you know?"
"You smell like wood."
I looked confused.
She pointed at my jacket.
"The store."
I looked down.
A faint scent of cedar had followed me from the showroom.
"You don't like it?"
"I like it."
She returned to coloring.
"What are you making?"
"A house."
I looked at the paper.
It was a rectangle with a roof, two windows, and a person standing outside.
"Is that you?"
She nodded.
"Where is your mom?"
Lily added another person beside the first.
"Inside."
"Why are you outside?"
Her crayon stopped.
"I don't know."
I wanted to take the question back.
Some questions should not be asked just because they appear in your head.
She looked at the drawing for a while.
Then she added a door.
"Now I can go in."
I sat beside her.
Not too close.
Close enough.
The social worker watched from across the room.
I could feel her evaluating me.
Maybe she was supposed to.
Maybe someone needed to.
Adults made promises easily when emotions were high.
Then reality arrived.
Bills.
Exhaustion.
Schedules.
Fear.
I had seen it happen in business.
People loved ideas until the cost became real.
"Lily," Dana said gently, "we need to talk about tonight."
The girl's hand stopped moving.
"Where am I going?"
Dana pulled up a chair.
"We're looking at options."
"Is Mommy coming?"
"No."
Lily looked down.
"Because she's sleeping."
Dana's expression changed slightly.
She had heard the words before.
But hearing a child say them was different.
"We're trying to find someone who can take care of you until your mom gets better."
Lily nodded.
"Okay."
The acceptance bothered me.
Children should have protested.
They should have cried.
They should have demanded their parents.
Instead, Lily simply adjusted her expectations.
That was worse.
Dana turned toward me.
"We have contacted extended family."
"And?"
"Her mother has a sister in Oregon."
"Can she take Lily?"
"We don't know yet."
Lily continued coloring.
"What is your aunt's name?"
Dana asked.
"Rachel."
"Do you like Rachel?"
Lily shrugged.
"She sends birthday cards."
That answer contained more information than Lily probably realized.
Not family.
Not home.
Just cards.
Dana left the room to make another call.
I watched Lily carefully.
"Do you have a backpack?"
She nodded.
"At home."
"What is inside?"
"Stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
She looked at me like I had asked a strange question.
"Normal stuff."
I smiled slightly.
"What's normal stuff?"
She counted on her fingers.
"My pajamas."
She lifted one finger.
"My toothbrush."
Another.
"A picture."
She stopped.
"What picture?"
"My dad."
The word came out differently this time.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Just careful.
"Can I see it?"
She hesitated.
Then she nodded.
"It's in my backpack."
I remembered the way she had said she had saved money.
The way she knew her address.
The way she answered every question.
A five-year-old carrying a backpack with her important things was not unusual.
The fact that she knew exactly what was important was.
Later that afternoon, Dana arranged for a hospital security officer to escort us while we collected Lily's things from home.
I offered to go.
Dana looked at me.
"You are not a guardian."
"I know."
"Then why?"
I looked at Lily.
She was standing beside the elevator holding her raincoat.
"Because she shouldn't have to walk back into that apartment alone."
Dana did not argue.
The drive was quiet.
Seattle traffic crawled through wet streets.
Lily sat in the back seat with her seat belt pulled tight.
She watched everything outside.
"Do you always work late?" she asked.
"Usually."
"Why?"
I thought about giving the adult answer.
Because business required it.
Because responsibility required sacrifice.
Because success demanded effort.
Instead, I said, "I got used to it."
She accepted that.
Kids were surprisingly good at leaving uncomfortable answers alone.
After a few minutes, she asked, "Do you have kids?"
"No."
"Why?"
I smiled.
"That is a very direct question."
She looked confused.
"Is it bad?"
"No."
I looked at the road.
"No, I just don't hear people ask it that way."
"Why don't you?"
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
There were questions adults avoided because the answers were too connected to things they regretted.
"I guess I never figured out how."
Lily looked out the window.
"Mommy says people don't have to know how before they start."
The sentence stayed with me.
Her mother.
A woman I had never met.
A woman unconscious in a hospital room.
Somehow, through a five-year-old child, she was already challenging me.
The apartment building was older than I expected.
Not dangerous.
Just tired.
The hallway smelled like laundry detergent and old carpet.
Lily unlocked the door herself.
That bothered me.
She should not have known how.
Inside, everything was small.
A small kitchen.
A small couch.
A small table with three chairs even though only two people lived there.
The apartment was clean.
Not perfectly clean.
Lived-in clean.
A dish drying beside the sink.
A folded blanket on the couch.
A grocery list held to the refrigerator with a magnet.
I noticed the handwriting immediately.
The letters were uneven.
A child's writing.
Milk.
Eggs.
Apples.
May you like
Call doctor.
That last line made me stop.
