Chương 11
Claire stayed in the downstairs guest suite with the door open. Daniel remained with the children. No one turned on the television. The house, usually filled with music selected to be unobtrusive, held every ordinary sound too clearly.
At two, Lily fell asleep against Daniel on the sectional. Her fingers remained buried in the rabbit’s fur. Owen sat on the floor building a small vehicle from leftover castle pieces.
Daniel watched him work.
“You can ask me things,” he said.
Owen fitted a red wheel onto a blue axle. “You don’t know the answers.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t ask.”
“Did you see the message?”
“The period?”
Owen nodded.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
Daniel could have said he was in a meeting. He could have explained that a period did not communicate danger. Both were true and useless.
“I didn’t want another argument with Claire,” he said.
Owen pushed the axle too hard and the wheel popped off.
“I thought if I waited, whatever was happening would settle down.”
“It didn’t.”
“No.”
“I didn’t know what to write.”
“I’m glad you wrote something.”
“It was an accident.”
Daniel looked at him.
“I was trying to send a picture,” Owen said. “But she came back, so I hit the screen.”
“What picture?”
“The hanger.”
Daniel’s stomach tightened.
“Did you take one?”
“No. It was too late.”
“Okay.”
“Would you believe me if you didn’t see it?”
Daniel looked toward the foyer. Through the glass panel, the hanger still lay across the planter.
“I want to say yes.”
“That means maybe.”
“It means I’ve missed things before.”
Owen attached the wheel again. “Claire says Lily exaggerates.”
“Does Lily exaggerate?”
“Sometimes.”
“So do you.”
“So do you.”
Daniel nodded. “Yes.”
Owen glanced at his sleeping sister. “But she doesn’t lie about scary things.”
“Have you tried to tell me before?”
The boy bent over the toy.
“Not exactly.”
“What did you try to say?”
“That Claire was mean.”
“What did I say?”
“You said she was stressed.”
Daniel closed his eyes for a moment.
“And you said I had to give her a chance because marriage is hard.”
“I put an adult problem on you.”
“I didn’t know what it meant.”
“I’m glad.”
Owen turned the little vehicle between his hands. “Are you mad at me for not telling?”
“No.”
“Are you mad at yourself?”
“Yes.”
The answer seemed to satisfy him more than reassurance would have.
After Lily woke, Daniel took both children upstairs to collect pajamas and toothbrushes. Claire remained downstairs. Owen checked the hallway before entering his room.
His bed was made. Books lined one shelf. A model airplane hung from the ceiling on clear thread. Nothing looked disturbed.
Lily’s room was across the hall, painted pale green despite Claire’s preference for white. A drawing was taped beside the window. Three figures stood beneath an enormous sun: Daniel, Owen, and Lily. A fourth figure, blonde and dressed in black, stood near the edge of the paper with no hands.
Daniel stared at it.
Lily saw him.
“That was before,” she said.
“Before what?”
“Before today.”
“I know. What were you drawing?”
“The garden.”
“Why doesn’t Claire have hands?”
Lily shrugged.
Owen answered from the doorway. “She said hands are hard.”
“They are,” Daniel said.
He did not turn the picture into evidence. Children left out hands, ears, entire bodies when they grew bored. Still, he noticed the space between Claire and the others.
Lily packed two nightgowns, socks, and a hairbrush into a small bag. Then she opened the top drawer of her dresser and removed a folded sheet of paper.
“What’s that?” Daniel asked.
“Rules.”
He took it only after she held it out.
The page had been typed and printed. HOUSE EXPECTATIONS appeared at the top in Claire’s preferred gray font. The rules were ordinary at first: shoes in closets, cups returned to kitchen, toys stored before dinner. Lower on the page, the language changed.
Crying does not change instructions.
Bedrooms are privileges that require respect.
Items left out may be removed without warning.
Repeated disobedience results in silent time.
Daniel read the list twice.
“Where was this?”
“On our doors,” Owen said.
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Why didn’t I see it?”
“We took them down before you came home.”
“Why?”
Owen looked embarrassed. “You don’t like papers taped to doors.”
Daniel sat on the edge of Lily’s bed.
The children had hidden the rules to protect themselves from his irritation. He could not remember ever forbidding paper on doors. Perhaps he had complained once about tape damaging paint. In a house ruled by adult moods, a complaint could become law without anyone intending it.
“What is silent time?” he asked.
“We sit in the dining room,” Owen said.
“For how long?”
“Until Claire says.”
“What happens if you speak?”
“Time starts over.”
Daniel looked at Lily. “Has that happened?”
She nodded.
“How many times?”
“Three.”
Claire had said she asked them to sit while she cleaned. Another smallest version.
Daniel folded the paper carefully.
Owen watched him. “Are you going to show her?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll be mad we kept it.”
“She already knows she made it.”
“She said we weren’t supposed to show people.”
Daniel felt something cold settle into place.
“When did she say that?”
“When she put them up. She said family rules are private.”
“Did she say not to show me?”
Owen thought. “She said we shouldn’t embarrass her by running to Dad.”
Daniel placed the paper on Lily’s desk.
“Pack what you need,” he said. “I’m going downstairs.”
Both children moved toward him.
“You’re coming too,” he added.
They followed.
Claire was sitting in the guest suite, still dressed, her bag beside the bed. She had opened the curtains. Afternoon sunlight spread across the carpet.
Daniel stood in the doorway with the children behind him and held up the folded paper.
“What is silent time?”
Claire looked at the page.
Her face answered before she did.
“It’s a cooling-off period.”
May you like
“For whom?”
“Everyone.”
