Chapter 8 - The Kitchen Was Too Bright to Hide In
I woke up with my hoodie stuck to my cheek.
That morning light came through the kitchen window and hit everything at once. I could smell coffee. I could hear the refrigerator humming. My feet were cold on the tile even though he'd left socks by the bed. I hadn't put them on. I just kept my hoodie zipped up to my chin and sat at the table where he'd set out toast.
My name is Emily. I was seven and trying not to be trouble.
He looked older in the morning. His gray hair wasn't slicked back the same way. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled once, no tie, no jacket. His watch was still on. He set a glass of milk down careful, like he didn't want the clink to scare me.
"Morning," he said. "Did you sleep any?"
"A little," I said. My stomach made a noise and I pressed my arm against it.
He didn't pretend he didn't hear it. He just pushed the toast closer. "Eat slow. There's oatmeal too, if you want it after."
I picked up half a piece. My hand shook when I chewed. It wasn't like at the restaurant. My jaw got tired fast and my stomach cramped up. I stopped and breathed.
He watched, then looked away on purpose so I wouldn't feel stared at. That's when he saw my legs.
My dress had ridden up when I sat. The bruises on my shins and the yellow-green one above my knee showed. And the scrape on my foot from the sidewalk. Dirt still in the edge of it because I hadn't wanted to take a bath last night.
He didn't gasp. He just set his coffee down. "Can I look at your foot for a second? Just to see if it needs cleaning."
I pulled my legs back under the chair. "It's okay."
"I know," he said. "I'm not going to touch it without you saying so. Does it hurt to walk?"
"A little," I said.
He nodded. He got up slow and got the first-aid box from the counter and left it on the table between us, open, so I could see what was inside. Band-Aids and gauze and that brown soap stuff. "We can clean it after breakfast. Or at the clinic, if you'd rather have a nurse do it."
I stared at him. "Am I sick?"
"No," he said. "But you haven't eaten since Friday. That's a long time to go without food. And those bruises — people who help kids need to write down what they see. So nobody guesses wrong."
That word helped me got cold all over. "Are you calling the cops on me?"
He sat back down. He kept his hands flat on the table where I could see them. "I'm calling the non-emergency line. To ask what I'm supposed to do. Because you're in my apartment and you're hurt and I'm not your family. If I don't call, I could get in trouble. And worse, you wouldn't get help if you need it."
I put the toast down. "I didn't lie about my mom."
"I didn't say you did," he said.
"But if they call the school or something, they'll say I lie," I said. My voice got thin. "I told the lunch lady my mom was coming with money and she never came. I told my teacher my grandpa signed my folder when he didn't. I just didn't want them to know."
He was quiet for a breath. "Thank you for telling me that."
The phone call was in the kitchen, right in front of me. He asked first. "Is it okay if I put it on speaker? So you hear everything. No surprises."
I nodded, clutching my zipper.
He dialed and gave his name and address and said, "I have a seven-year-old girl staying with me since last night. She approached me in a restaurant. She says her father died, her mother is gone, her grandfather died last week. She is bruised and she hadn't eaten. I want to report that and ask for guidance."
The dispatcher asked if it was an emergency. He said, "No. But she needs medical and I need to know who to contact." She transferred him.
We waited. The hold music was thin and buzzy. I counted the tiles to not cry.
Then a woman came on. She said she was with county intake. She asked his name again, my name, my age. He spelled Emily for her. She asked where I was now. He said, "Sitting three feet from me in my kitchen, eating toast."
She asked if she could speak to me. He looked at me. "Only if you want to."
I shook my head fast.
"She doesn't want to talk yet," he said. "She's scared."
The caseworker didn't sound mad. Her voice was flat and tired, like she'd done this a lot before. She asked him about injuries, about last meal, about school, about the grandfather's name and address if I knew it. He answered only what I'd told him. When he didn't know, he said, "I don't know. I won't guess."
Then she asked, "Did she say what happened to her mother?"
My hands went cold. I whispered, "Don't tell her I lied."
He heard me. He said into the phone, "She's worried you'll think she's lying about her mom. She told me her mom is gone. That's all I have permission to share right now."
The caseworker said, "Tell her intake is started. That's not trouble. That's paperwork so we can check on her. Someone will call back today about a clinic visit and verification."
When he hung up, the kitchen was too quiet. The refrigerator hummed again.
I stared at my milk. "Did I cause trouble?"
He shook his head. "You caused breakfast to get cold."
I didn't smile. He pushed the oatmeal toward me anyway, and waited while I took one small bite, then another, slow.
Outside the window the city looked normal and sunny. A bus went by. Somebody was walking a dog. I kept thinking someone was going to knock and take me away because I'd lied at school and now I'd made him call.
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He must have seen it on my face. He said, "Whatever happens next, you ate here. You slept safe. That part counts."
I held my glass with both hands so it wouldn't shake, and tried to believe him until the phone rang again.
