Chapter 6 - Fruit Bowl and Whispered Warning
The stools were too tall for us and that was part of why I remember it so clear. My feet didn't touch the rung right and I had to hook my ankles around the legs to stay still. The marble was cold under my elbows. The fruit bowl was right in front of us, close enough I could smell the oranges.
The maid had set out three small plates. Not real breakfast. Just something to keep us quiet. Crackers and apple slices. She kept looking over her shoulder while she cut, like she was checking if he was still there. I could hear Daddy's shoes on the tile behind us, then quieter near the piano. He wasn't talking now. That scared me more.
My older sister in pink pulled her plate toward her but she didn't eat. She sat the straightest. Mom always told her to sit like that.
"You shouldn't have said that," she whispered. She didn't look at me. She looked at the apples.
I held my bunny under the counter where no one could see it. Its ear was damp from where I'd been squeezing it. "I didn't mean to," I said.
"You said it loud," she said. "You said Daddy —" She stopped and glanced back. Then she leaned in closer. The three of us made a little circle around the fruit bowl. "Mom left because of fighting. That's what she told me. They were fighting that night and she went to get air. That's all."
My breathing got fast again. I remembered the fighting part. I remembered doors. But I didn't remember Mom telling me anything. "When did she tell you that?" I asked.
"The night before," my sister said, like she'd practiced it. "She was packing her bag in the closet and I asked if we were going on a trip and she said no, grown-ups fight sometimes. That's why she left. Not because — not what you said."
The youngest one in lavender kicked her feet against the stool. Her white sock had slipped down a little. She kept pushing an apple slice around her plate with her finger.
"She's sleeping somewhere else," she said, very quiet. "Like a hotel. With white beds."
I stared at her. "Who told you that?"
She shrugged. "Nobody. I just know. Because her pillow's gone. I checked."
My older sister frowned at her. "You shouldn't go in their room."
"I wanted to smell her," she said. She didn't cry. She just kept moving the apple. "Her side is cold."
The maid set a glass of milk down next to us and her hand shook a little. A drop spilled on the marble. She wiped it quick with her apron. "Eat," she mouthed, and went back to the sink. The water ran for a second, then stopped.
I looked at the oranges in the bowl. There was a bruise on one, a soft brown spot. I wanted to touch it but I didn't.
"Did you hear Mom last night?" I asked my older sister. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted.
She hesitated. She picked up a cracker and broke it in half instead of eating it. Crumbs fell on the counter. "I heard loud," she admitted. "I heard Daddy say her name. Then a door."
"Did you hear —" I didn't know how to ask it. The word I had used felt too big now in my mouth. "Did you hear what I said? Before?"
My sister in lavender nodded. "You said killed," she whispered. She said it like she was trying the word out to see if it would break something. "Is killed when someone doesn't wake up?"
My chest hurt. I pressed my bunny harder against my stomach. "I don't know," I said. "I heard it on TV. The lady said Daddy killed —" I stopped. That wasn't exactly right either. I tried to remember where I'd actually heard it. At school? From a show the maid watched while she folded laundry? From the way Daddy had looked that morning, his hand near his waist? It had just come out when I reached for his coat. It had felt true for a second.
My older sister leaned so close her hair touched my arm. "Well we didn't say it," she said. "You did. You made that word up. We never said that."
I realized she was right. That was the worst part. They had their own stories — fighting, sleeping somewhere else — and I was the only one who had said that other thing. It hadn't come from them. It had come from me, from somewhere inside me that was scared.
"Are you going to tell?" I asked.
She looked at our little sister, then back at me. "If somebody asks, we tell the truth. If nobody asks, we don't say it again. Okay?"
"Promise?" my little sister whispered.
My older sister put her hand out over the fruit bowl, palm down. Her fingers were sticky from apple juice. I put my hand on top of hers, and then our little sister put hers on top of mine. Our hands made a little tower over the oranges.
"Don't repeat it unless asked," my older sister said. She was trying to sound grown. "Especially not to Daddy. You saw his face."
I nodded. My eyes burned but I didn't cry. I didn't want the maid to see and come over and make it a bigger thing.
May you like
"Okay," I said. "Unless asked."
We sat there like that for a second, hands stacked, feet swinging under the island. Behind us the house was too quiet. No piano. No TV. Just the fridge humming and our breathing, and the faint sound of rain still hitting the tall windows.
