Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Jack
Phelps walked me down herself. Third floor to second, a different corridor, quieter. The squeak of our shoes on the linoleum seemed to match the beating of my heart. Phelps didn't say anything and I didn't either. There wasn't anything left to say.
She stopped outside a door left half open and a woman with dark scrubs in her fifties came out to meet us. Deb, the family liaison. Phelps introduced us in a low voice and the two of them exchanged something brief and professional that I wasn't really part of. I stood there and looked at the door.
Through the gap I could hear the television. Something with music in it, children's voices. Low volume, the kind of thing you put on for a kid not because they're watching it but because silence is worse.
Phelps touched my arm once, lightly. "I'll be upstairs," she said, then turned to leave.
Deb looked at me.
"She's been okay," she said. "Quiet girl, which is to be expected.
We told her this morning. Used plain language.
That's what we're trained to do, really.
No euphemisms, nothing that leaves room for hope that isn't there.
" Her features softened. "She took it very…
quietly. Hasn't cried much. That's not unusual at this age, from what I usually see.
It comes in waves, over days." She made a pause.
"She's asked a few times when you were coming. "
That stopped me.
"She's been asking for me?"
"She knew someone was coming," Deb said. "Her mom talked about you."
I nodded, then pushed the door open and went in.
* * *
The room was small and dim, the blinds half down against the afternoon light. Lily was sitting up in bed. She had a stuffed rabbit in her lap, both hands around it. The television was on in the corner, some cartoon dancing around the screen, the sound barely there. She wasn't watching it.
She was watching the door.
She had Cassie's dark hair, curling at the ends the way Cassie's always had. Cassie's eyes too, that particular dark. She looked at me as if taking my measurements—careful, waiting to see what I was going to be.
I pulled the chair from the corner and sat down next to the bed. I left some space. I didn't say anything right away, and neither did she.
The rabbit was missing an eye. Someone had sewn a button over the gap at some point, mismatched, slightly too large. She was turning it over in her hands without looking at it, a repetitive but, I assumed, comforting gesture.
"Hi," I said.
She considered me for a moment. "You're Uncle Jack."
"Yeah."
"Mom has a picture of you." She looked down at the rabbit. "On her phone."
I didn't know what to do with that so I just nodded.
"She said you lived far away," Lily said.
"I did." I looked at her. "But I don't have to anymore."
She looked up at me then, and something moved across her face that was too old for five. She was doing the thing kids do when the adults around them are being careful—reading for the thing behind the words, trying to find the shape of what’s true and what’s not.
"Is Mommy coming back?"
I hadn't been expecting that one. Or maybe I had, but it still landed with unexpected violence.
I'd had the whole corridor to prepare for this and I still wasn't ready, because there was no version of ready for this.
She wasn't asking because she didn't know.
She was asking because she needed to hear it from someone who had also lost her.
Not a nurse or a liaison with practiced words. Someone who was in the loss with her.
I thought about Cassie at the kitchen table. Her warm hands over mine.
"No, sweetheart," I said. "She's not coming back."
Lily looked at the rabbit. Her jaw tightened and released.
She was five years old and she was trying very hard not to cry and the effort of it—this small person holding herself together—was the most devastating thing I'd ever seen.
More than anything that had happened to me that day. More than any of it.
She didn't cry. She just held the rabbit tighter and breathed through her nose and looked at nothing.
I kept my mouth shut. There was nothing to say. I just stayed in the chair and let her be in it, whatever it was, without trying to fix it or move past it or make it smaller than it was. If I could give her anything right now it was that—just someone sitting still in the wreckage with her.
We stayed like that for a while.
At some point the cartoon ended and something else came on and neither of us noticed. The room got a little darker as the afternoon moved. She shifted on the bed—not much, just a few inches in my direction—as if moving toward warmth without deciding to. I let her.
"Are you going to go away again?" she said, her voice smaller than before. Like she already knew it cost something to ask.
"No," I said. "I'm not going anywhere."
I meant it when I said it. That was the thing.
Twelve years of nowhere in particular, of packing in eight minutes and leaving without looking back, of choosing the next rig over the next town over the next version of a life that might actually ask something of me—and I meant it.
Just like that. A five-year-old with a rabbit and her mother's eyes had asked me the one question I'd spent my whole adult life making sure nobody could ask, and the answer had come out of me before I'd had time to be afraid of it.
She looked at me for a long moment, breathing slow. The rabbit was still in her hands, the mismatched button eye catching what light there was.
Then she held it out, like an offering.
I took it, holding it the way she had. I turned it over once and the button eye looked up at me. I held it a moment longer than I needed to, then handed it back. She tucked it against her chest, squeezing it more tightly than before, and looked at the window.
Somehow, this seemed like an agreement. A deal.
Deb appeared in the doorway and I stood.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I said. "First thing. Okay?"
Lily looked at the rabbit.
"Okay." She said it quietly. Carefully.
Like she was already learning not to count on it.