Chapter 7
The plates were still on the table when my dad took my hand. The wine glasses hadn't been cleared. The gold rims caught the lamplight and it was strange how perfect it all still looked, like nothing had happened.
He didn't let go of my bunny even though I was holding it. His hand was around mine. "Come with me," he said quietly, not to her, to me.
I could hear her chair scrape when she stood too. She didn't say anything at first, she just followed.
We walked the short hall from the dining room toward the back of the house. I knew every inch of that hallway because I'd counted the floorboards when I was sent down it. The front of the house was warm. The dining room, the living room with the framed painting, the rug that never had a wrinkle. My dad's eyes kept moving between those rooms and where we were headed. The air changed as we got closer to the laundry room. It was colder. The light was white and flat, not warm like the lamps.
My dad stopped at the laundry room door. He tried the handle. It opened, but then he saw it. Above the regular knob, there was a small silver lock that hadn't been there when he moved us in. It was a push-button lock, installed on the outside.
He just stared at it. He touched it with his fingertips.
"When did this get put on?" he asked without turning around.
"It's for safety," she said from behind us. Her voice was calmer now, careful. "Cleaning products. You know I told you I was worried she'd get into something. That's all it is."
My dad didn't answer. He pushed the door open. Inside, the washer and dryer were humming even though they weren't running. The room smelled like detergent and damp concrete. The floor was bare. There was a small stool in the corner, the plastic one from my bathroom, and the light was a single bare bulb. No window.
I pressed closer to his leg. Bunny's ear was against my cheek. That ear was darker than the rest of him, worn thin where I'd rubbed it between my fingers every time I was in that room. My dad looked down and saw it. He reached out and brushed the matted fur with his thumb.
I remembered the other houses we showed people. Sunday mornings in the church parking lot, she would hold my hand so tight and smile at everyone and say, "Doesn't she look precious in that dress?" At school pick-up she'd crouch down and fix my hair for the other moms to see, her voice sweet. At dinner parties she laughed and refilled his wine glass and everyone said how lucky he was. Then the car door would close on the way home and her hand would let go.
"It's strict parenting," she said now, stepping a little closer. She crossed her arms in that cream blouse. "I know it looks bad on camera, but every family has their own way. She was having a tantrum. I needed her to calm down somewhere quiet. That's not abuse, it's a time-out. You have to see the difference."
My dad finally turned. He wasn't yelling like at the table. He was breathing slow and his stubble caught the hard light.
"A time-out doesn't need a lock on the outside," he said.
"It's not about locking her in," she said. "It's about keeping her out when I'm not in there. You're twisting this."
We walked back past the dining room to my bedroom. My door was open and the room looked perfect too. The bed was made hospital-tight, the toys lined up on the shelf like they were for display. It was cold in there, colder than the hall. He noticed the blanket was too thin for how chilly the house got at night. He noticed the nightlight was unplugged, tucked behind the dresser.
"She sleeps better in the cool," she said quickly. "The pediatrician said—"
"Don't," he cut her off, not loud, just flat. "Don't do that."
He knelt down next to my bed and pulled the blanket up. Underneath, the sheet had a faint stain where I'd spilled water and tried to clean it myself because I wasn't supposed to call out after bedtime. He saw it.
I stood in the doorway holding Bunny and watched his face change. He wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at the house like he was seeing it for the first time — the perfect dining table in one direction where we pretended, and the cold laundry room and the cold bedroom in the other where I actually lived.
He stood up and took my hand again. His grip was tighter this time, like he was anchoring me to the warm part of the house.
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"We're going back to the living room," he told her. "Don't follow us for a minute."
She stayed in the hallway with her arms still crossed, watching us walk away, the lamplight from the dining room making her blouse glow while the laundry room light buzzed white behind her.
