Chapter 19 Jude
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jude
Maisie settles into the back seat with her legs swinging, the little kicks brushing the upholstery.
I pull out of the driveway and merge onto the main road, the morning still washed with that soft, pale light that makes everything feel half-awake.
She watches the passing trees like she’s trying to count them. After a minute, she pipes up, “Can we play I Spy?”
“Sure,” I say, adjusting my grip on the wheel. “You start.”
“I spy with my little eye… something green.”
“Everything’s green,” I tease. “You have to narrow it down.”
She taps her chin like she’s seventy instead of eight. “Fine. Something green and spiky.”
I let out a hum. “One of the pine trees?”
“Yes.” She beams like she’s just aced a test.
We keep going. She picks a cloud next, then the blue mailbox outside a farmhouse.
I guess wrong on purpose a few times so she can correct me, because every time she says, “Nooo, Uncle Jude,” she laughs like it’s the best game in the world.
She doesn’t laugh much at home. Not lately. I’ll take what I can get.
When the road curves toward the highway, she goes quiet for a stretch, holding the straps of her seatbelt between her fingers. Then she says, “I wish I brought Frida.”
The words hit harder than I expect. Not because she’s talking about a toy. Because it’s the first time she’s asked for anyone—anything—since I brought her here.
She clung to that stuffed rabbit every day back at Amber’s place. Slept with it. Ate with it. Treated it like it could keep the world from cracking open.
But I’ve noticed that she leaves the rabbit behind a lot more. In fact, I haven’t seen her with it since yesterday morning.
And now, with her nerves showing and everything unfamiliar, she doesn’t ask for her mother. She asks for a stuffed rabbit.
Something twists low in my chest. What exactly is going on between Amber and her daughter? I thought I had some idea, but moments like this make me realize how much I still don’t know.
“We’ll bring Frida along next time,” I say, keeping my tone even.
“Okay.” She leans her forehead against the window. Her breath fogs the glass in little bursts. “Frida doesn’t like long car rides anyway.”
I smile at that. “Good to know.”
The drive stretches on, and I can feel her energy waver as we get closer to town. She taps her fingers on her knees. Bites her lip. Watches the buildings grow taller, more familiar.
By the time we pull into the optometrist’s lot, I realize something I probably should’ve known already. I’ve never taken a kid to an eye appointment. I don’t even know how these things go.
The office is tucked between a bakery and a pharmacy just outside town, a little brick place with a sign that creaks whenever the door opens.
I park across the street. She unbuckles but doesn’t climb out right away. Her hands stay on the belt like she’s holding herself still.
“You ready?” I ask gently.
She nods, though her chin dips toward her chest right after.
Inside, the air smells faintly of lemon wipes and carpet cleaner. A receptionist greets us with a smile that’s too big for this hour of the morning.
“Welcome. Appointment?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I called and made one for Maisie Carter. She’s a new patient.”
Maisie drifts behind my leg like she’s hiding from a stranger at the grocery store. Her fingers hook in the fabric of my jeans.
“This way,” the woman says, handing us a clipboard.
Maisie’s eyes dart to the exam rooms, wide and worried. “Do I have to go alone?”
“No,” I say, crouching to her level. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”
The tension in her shoulders loosens a little. “Okay.”
While I fill out the forms, she swings her legs from the waiting chair and studies the posters on the wall. Pictures of lenses. Retinas.
Diagrams showing things I probably should’ve learned years ago if I’d ever paid attention during my own checkups.
It hits me all at once—I don’t know basic things about my own niece. When was her last appointment? Has she ever had one? Does she have any symptoms besides squinting at the TV?
What did Amber notice? What did she ignore?
The questions pile up like bricks, but I swallow them down because the tech opens the door and calls Maisie’s name.
She inches closer to me, not saying anything but linking her fingers with mine like it’s instinct. She squeezes my hand as we walk in.
The room is small, with that huge machine that looks like a robot missing a face. Maisie eyes it like it might start talking to her.
“It won’t hurt,” the tech assures her. “We’ll just see how your eyes are doing.”
Maisie glances at me. I nod. She climbs into the chair, legs dangling.
They start with the chart across the room. The letters shrink as they go down, and she leans forward until her nose almost touches the machine. Her voice is soft when she guesses some of them, hesitant, barely above a whisper.
The tech makes notes.
As soon as the tech steps outside, Maisie slides down from the chair and clutches my hand again. “Am I failing?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Your eyes just need a little help, that’s all.”
“I don’t like when things are blurry.”
“I know. We’re gonna fix that.”
She nods like she’s trusting me with something big. Maybe she is.
Then the doctor steps in, an older man with warm eyes, and he gives me a handshake that borders on apologetic. “Heard you’re Dr. Benard’s patient. He’s not around, but I promise your niece will be in great hands. I’m Dr. Austin.”
I greet him back. Maisie follows suit.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, this won’t hurt at all,” he tells her.
Then he starts her tests.
Maisie answers every instruction, though her fingers twist together. She looks so damn small perched on that chair.
“Does this look clearer?” the doctor asks after switching the lenses. “Or this?”
She hesitates. “Umm… the first one?”
He swaps again. “How about now?”
“That one,” she says after a long pause.
I stay beside her, hand on the back of the chair, letting her know she’s not navigating any of this alone.
After a few more rounds, the doctor steps back. “She definitely needs glasses,” he says gently. “Nothing serious. Just enough to help her see things without straining.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Relief mixes with something sharper. Something that burns.
I noticed this in days.
Days.
Amber lived with her every day of her life and… nothing?
Maisie hops down.
We head to the optician next door to fill out her prescription.
The tech leads us to the wall of frames. Maisie lights up like she’s entered a candy shop.
“Can I try those?” she asks, pointing to a huge pair of round glasses that look like they belong to a cartoon owl.
“Absolutely,” the tech says.
The frames swallow half her face when she puts them on. She pushes them up her small nose and looks at me with a crooked grin.
“You look like Harry Potter,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her head tilts. “Who’s that?”
I blink. “Seriously?”
She nods.
“Well,” I say, “that’s unacceptable. I’ll fix that immediately. Movie night tonight.”
Her grin widens. “With popcorn?”
“Of course.”
She tries on eight more pairs—purple ones, glittery ones, ones shaped like stretched rectangles—but she circles back to the big round ones every time. Eventually, she chooses blue frames with soft edges and tiny silver specks along the arms. The tech tells us they’ll be ready in a while.
While we wait, the receptionist brings out a tray of sugar cookies shaped like stars. Maisie’s eyes go huge.
“Can I have two?” she asks, then glances up at me like she’s afraid the answer will be no.
“Sure,” I say. “Go ahead.”
She picks one, then reaches for another… then pauses, thinking it over.
“Can I take one more? For my new friend?”
I raise a brow. “Which new friend?”
“Norah,” she says simply, like this should’ve been obvious.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. “Yeah? You want to bring her a cookie?”
“Yes. She likes sweet things. I can tell.”
I don’t know how she can tell, but Maisie always seems to read people faster than adults do.
“Alright,” I say. “Grab one for her.”
She wraps it in a napkin, folds the edges like she’s packing treasure, and tucks it carefully into her little coat pocket.
By the time the glasses are ready, she’s worn herself out trying on every frame in the place. She slips the final pair on again and looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes widen, this soft awe settling over her features.
“I can see so far,” she whispers.
The tech smiles. “That’s what we like to hear.”
She takes my hand as we walk back to the car. Her steps have a little bounce now, like the world looks new and she’s trying to map it all again.
Once we’re on the road, she asks, “Can we take Norah her cookie now?”
“We’ll pass by before we head to the community hall,” I say. “But first you have to tell me something.”
“What?”
“Why do you like Norah so much?”
Maisie swings her feet again, thinking it over. “She reminds me of my favorite teacher, Miss Harlow. She’s never mad when kids talk a lot. Some teachers say I talk too much. Miss Harlow never did. Norah doesn’t either.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at that. Maisie doesn’t open up easily. She doesn’t get attached easily. For her to latch onto Norah after only a single interaction says more than anything she could put into words.
“That’s a good reason,” I say.
“She’s nice,” Maisie adds. “And she has pretty hair. And she listens. Some grown-ups don’t listen.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Some don’t.”
She leans back, glasses reflecting the sky as it shifts above us. “She’ll like the cookie.”
“I bet she will.”
Maisie hums softly and presses her hand against the window, tracing shapes on the cool glass. The drive stretches on, the long straight highway giving way to winding roads and dips of land carved into soft hills.
She watches it all with those new lenses, taking in details she probably hasn’t seen clearly in months—maybe longer.