Chapter 3 - Where the White Apron Didn't Belong
I didn't remember saying it right after I said it. I remembered the quiet that came after, and the way my sisters breathed next to me at the island.
We were up on the stools. Somebody had put us there. My feet didn't touch the rung and my shoes knocked against the metal when I swung them. The marble was cold under my palms. The vase was right in front of me and I could smell the flowers, too sweet, like they had been there too long. The fruit bowl was beside it. An orange had a soft spot going brown.
My name is Lucia. That morning I was the middle one.
The girl in the pink dress to my right was picking at her sock. The girl in lavender to my left had her hands folded in her lap like she was trying to be good. I could hear the refrigerator humming. I could hear rain still tapping the tall windows behind us. I could hear my dad breathing by the hallway.
He stood where he could see all of us and the kitchen at the same time. His jacket was still on. His shirt hung open at the neck and I could see the dark edge of the ink on his chest. He didn't sit. He didn't tell us to get down. He just watched.
I kept looking at the maid.
She was still on the floor by the tile. Not all the way kneeling now, but sitting back on her heels, her hands in her lap. Her hair was pulled back tight and a piece had come loose by her ear. There was a gray smudge on her cheek. Her apron had twisted when she moved and she tried to straighten it without standing up.
That was when I saw it.
The apron was white with a pocket in front and a tie in the back. It had a little stain near the hem, like flour and water. I knew that stain. I had watched my mom rub at it at the sink and say it wouldn't come out.
That was Mommy's apron.
The last morning she was in the kitchen she wore it over her robe. It was early and still gray outside and the lights under the cabinets were on. She stood at the island in the same spot where the vase was now. She didn't have shoes on, just socks, and her hair was down. She poured milk in three cups and didn't fill mine all the way because I always spilled.
I remembered because she let me tie the back. The string was too long and I made a messy knot and she laughed under her breath and said, that'll hold. Her hands smelled like lotion. The piano lid was closed behind her. Nobody was playing. The bunny was on the rug then too, lying on its side by the couch.
I looked from the apron to my dad. He had his arms crossed. His right hand tucked close to his side. I didn't understand why he stood in front of the hallway like he didn't want us to go that way.
"Where's Mommy's car?" I asked.
My voice sounded too loud. The girl in pink stopped picking at her sock.
My dad didn't answer right away. He glanced toward the windows, then back at me. "We're not talking about that right now," he said.
I pressed my palms flatter on the marble. The cold went into my fingers. "Her keys were on the hook," I said. "They're not there."
The hook was by the door to the garage. It was shaped like a little silver house. Mommy always hung them there and they clinked when she dropped them. I had looked when we came in that morning to get breakfast. The hook was empty.
The girl in lavender kicked her shoe softly against the stool leg. "Maybe she took them," she whispered.
I shook my head. I didn't mean to be mean but I did. "She didn't. She always leaves her keys if she's upstairs."
My dad stepped forward one step and then stopped himself. "Lucia," he said. Quiet. A warning and not a warning.
The maid looked up at me then. Her eyes were red at the edges. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something and then she looked at my dad and closed it again. Her hand went to the apron pocket and held it.
That made my chest feel tight. I knew that pocket. Mommy kept a hair tie in there and a crayon stub because one of us was always asking for one.
"Why are you wearing her apron?" I asked her.
Nobody moved. The refrigerator kept humming. The rain tapped.
My dad said, "That's enough."
But I couldn't stop looking at the white cloth over her black dress. It didn't fit her right. The strap kept slipping off her shoulder and she kept pushing it back. Mommy was taller. On Mommy it hung straight.
The girl in pink leaned into me, her shoulder against mine. "Stop," she whispered. "You're gonna get her in trouble."
I didn't want to get anyone in trouble. I wanted someone to say where Mommy was and why her apron was on somebody else and why her keys were gone and why nobody would answer straight.
I remembered the fight the night before, not the words, just the sound. A door closing hard down the hall. Mommy's voice low and fast. My dad's voice lower. The piano bench scraping. Then quiet. Then Mommy didn't come to check the nightlight.
I didn't know what killed meant when I said it. I knew it was the worst word I had. I knew it made adults stop talking. And now they had stopped talking again, and that told me more than if they'd yelled.
My dad rubbed his mouth with his left hand. He wouldn't look at the maid. The maid wouldn't look at him. They were both looking at me like I was something they had to be careful with.
I slid off the stool. My shoes hit the tile loud. My dad held up his hand.
"Stay there," he said.
I stayed by the stool with my hand on the seat. The bunny was a few feet away on the rug, on its back now like someone had stepped near it. I wanted to pick it up but I didn't move.
"Did Mommy give you that?" I asked the maid. My voice shook at the end and I hated it.
The maid glanced at my dad again. She gave a little nod, too fast. "Yes," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "She said I could use it."
It was a lie. I knew it the way kids know. Too fast and too quiet and she didn't breathe after. My sisters knew it too because the girl in lavender looked down and the girl in pink grabbed the edge of my dress and held on.
My dad cleared his throat. "Go wash your hands," he said. "All three of you. In the bathroom by the piano. Together."
He was trying to move us. I understood that even then. He wanted us out of the kitchen so the grown-ups could talk without us hearing.
I didn't move at first. I stared at the empty key hook by the garage door. I stared at the twisted apron. I stared at my dad blocking the hallway where Mommy's room was.
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They were hiding her story. I didn't know the whole story. I just knew they had decided not to tell it to me.
I took my sisters' hands. Their fingers were cold. We walked toward the piano together, our socks and shoes quiet on the tile, and I felt my dad watching our backs the whole way.
