Part 5
Mark called twice.
Amelia did not answer.
Dana from BrightPath texted once.
We are reviewing internally and will follow up.
Amelia stared at the message at a stoplight until the car behind her honked.
Reviewing internally. The modern prayer of institutions hoping delay could cool outrage.
At a drive-through near their neighborhood, Amelia bought chicken noodle soup, bread, a bottle of apple juice, and fries because Emma asked quietly from the backseat as if asking too much might endanger the rescue. The teenager at the window handed over the bag without looking up from the register.
“Have a good night,” he said.
Amelia took the bag.
Emma said softly, “He doesn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“That this was a bad night.”
Amelia looked at her daughter in the rearview mirror. Emma’s face was pale in the fading light, eyes swollen, hair messy at the temples.
“No,” Amelia said. “He doesn’t.”
“Lucky.”
“Yes.”
At home, the townhouse smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and the lavender candle Amelia had forgotten to blow out that morning before remembering at the elevator and panicking for two minutes over nothing while Emma was actually alone somewhere. The contrast made her angry all over again.
She locked the door. Then she checked it. Then she checked it again.
Emma watched from the entry rug.
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“You already locked it.”
“I know.”
Emma removed her shoes and lined them beside the bench, one tipped sideways. Amelia left it.
They ate soup at the kitchen island. Emma dipped bread into the bowl and mostly drank broth. Amelia sat beside her instead of across from her. Her phone lay face down on the counter, vibrating occasionally like an insect trapped under glass. Mark. BrightPath. Mark. Unknown number. Mark again.
Emma looked at it each time.
“You can answer,” she said.
“No.”
“What if it’s important?”
“You are important.”
That embarrassed her. Emma ducked her head and tore the bread into small pieces.
After dinner, Amelia ran a bath and sat on the closed toilet lid while Emma washed. Steam softened the mirror. Emma made a small beard with bubbles on her chin and then looked ashamed of playing.
“It’s okay,” Amelia said.
Emma wiped the bubbles away. “I know.”
But she had not known. Not really. She had needed permission.
When Emma emerged in pajamas with damp hair, she chose not her bed but the sofa downstairs. She did this on nights when bad dreams seemed likely. Amelia had learned not to argue. A child asking to sleep near the center of the house was asking to be guarded without having to say it.
Amelia brought the cream blanket from the linen closet and tucked it around her.
“Can you sit until I fall asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Can you not call Dad yet?”
Amelia’s throat tightened. “Yes.”
Emma lay on her side, knees curled, one hand under her cheek. Without her backpack and shoes, she looked younger than seven. Almost small enough to be the baby Amelia still sometimes expected to find in the crib that had left the house five years ago.
“Mom?”
“Yeah.”
“What if next time nobody comes?”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“You can’t know.”
Children were cruel with truth by accident.
Amelia smoothed the blanket near Emma’s shoulder. “Then I will make the grown-ups build a plan that does not depend on hoping.”
Emma blinked slowly. “That sounds like work.”
“It is.”
“You like work.”
“Not this kind.”
Emma’s eyes closed. “I knew you’d come.”
Amelia did not speak, because if she did, the sound would not be useful.
She sat on the floor beside the sofa while Emma’s breathing lengthened. The living room dimmed around them. The lamp cast warm light over the neutral walls, the stack of library books on the side table, the small sock half-hidden under the ottoman. Outside, a neighbor’s garage door opened and closed. Somewhere upstairs, the heat clicked on.
For almost ten minutes, Amelia let ordinary sounds convince her the emergency had ended.
Then her phone vibrated again.
She stood carefully, checking that Emma did not stir. In the kitchen, she turned the phone over.
Mark.
She let it ring out.
A voicemail appeared.
Then a text.
Can we talk like adults?
Amelia stared at it so long the screen dimmed.
A second text followed.
I’m coming over.
Her body reacted before her mind did. She moved to the front window and looked through the narrow gap in the curtain. The street was dark except for porch lights and the pale wash of a streetlamp. No headlights yet.
She typed back.
Do not come here tonight.
Mark responded immediately.
May you like
She’s my daughter too.
Amelia looked toward the living room, where Emma slept under the cream blanket with her face turned toward the sofa back, finally unreachable by anyone’s explanations.
