Chapter 8 - The Apron Is Not Hers
She was cleaning to stay. I knew that even then.
The spill was by the island leg, milk or cleaner, a thin white shine on the tile. She had a dish towel folded in her hand and she kept going over the same spot. Her knees were still red from kneeling. She breathed through her mouth like she was trying not to make noise.
My name is Lucia. I was the middle one in the floral dress that morning.
My sisters had gone quiet by the piano. Daddy was in the hall on his phone. I could hear the low part of his voice and then nothing. The front of his jacket was closed now. I had looked to check. The dark shape at his waist was gone from sight, but I kept the place where it had been in my head.
I walked to the edge of the rug and stopped. My bunny was still on the rug with one ear bent. I picked it up because my hand needed something to hold. The maid looked up and tried to smile. There was still a smudge on her cheek.
"You missed a spot," I said.
She looked down fast. "Where?"
I pointed. She wiped again. Her hand shook a little and the towel dragged.
The apron string had come loose on one side. It hung down by her hip. The apron was white and too clean compared to her dress. The pocket on the front had a small stitched flower I knew. Blue thread. Uneven petals.
I stared at it until she noticed.
"That's my mom's," I said.
She stopped wiping. Her hand stayed flat on the tile. She didn't look at the pocket. She looked at my face.
"It was lent," she said. "Not given."
I squeezed the bunny's ear. "When?"
She sat back on her heels. She folded the towel once, then again, making the edges line up. "Before. When I started. She said wear this until yours comes."
"Yours never came?" I said.
"No," she said. "Not yet."
From the hall Daddy's voice went lower. I couldn't hear words. The refrigerator hummed. Outside the tall windows the light was white and flat on the driveway. No car yet.
I stepped closer. My shoes made a small sound on the tile. She watched my feet like she was making sure I wouldn't slip in the wet spot.
"Why do you still wear it?" I asked.
She glanced toward the hall, quick. "Because it's clean. Because it's what I have."
I touched the pocket with one finger. The stitching felt raised under my fingertip. I remembered Mom sitting at the island with the apron in her lap, pulling a needle through. She'd stuck her tongue out a little when she concentrated. She'd said the flower was crooked on purpose so we'd know it was hers.
"She made that," I said.
The maid nodded. "I know."
"Did she say you could keep it?"
The maid's mouth opened, then closed. "She said use it for now."
That was not the same as keep. I heard the difference. My chest felt tight the way it did when I tried not to cry in front of Daddy.
She started wiping again, slower. The wet spot was gone but she kept moving the towel in a small circle.
"Did my daddy hurt my mommy?" I said.
Her hand stopped in the middle of the circle. She didn't lift her head right away. I saw her breathing change. Her shoulders went up and stayed up. The towel bunched under her fingers.
For a second I thought she hadn't heard me. The fridge hummed. Water ticked in the faucet.
May you like
She looked up then. Not at me. Past me, toward the hall where Daddy stood.
She didn't answer. She just looked to him, waiting.
