Chapter 13 - The Morning Light on the Bookcase
The light was different when I woke up. It wasn't the warm dim glow from my nightlight or the hallway spilling in when Dad left the door cracked. It was morning light, thin and white, cutting across the dark wood floor and hitting the white bookcase.
My photo was not in my hands.
For a long time it had been. I’d fallen asleep holding it against my chest so tight my fingers would ache. But that morning my hands were empty. The silver frame was on the second shelf, right between the bear with the stitched nose and the bunny with the blue ears. It was facing my bed, like we’d agreed to leave it. I stared at it from my pillow and waited to feel the panic that usually came when I didn’t have it. It didn’t come.
Dad knocked once, softly, like he always did now instead of just opening the door.
“Hey, honey,” he said.
He was already dressed for work, but not all the way. He had his gray pants on and a faded t-shirt, his navy sweater folded over his arm. His hair was still damp from the shower. He came and sat on the edge of my bed the way he did when he wasn’t in a hurry, and his silver watch caught the morning light for a second.
I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest. My cream bow had slipped to the side while I slept.
“You left her on the shelf all night,” he said quietly, nodding toward the bookcase. He wasn’t asking it like a test. He was just noticing.
I nodded. I looked at the frame, then back at him. My throat did that thing where it gets tight before you say something you’ve been practicing in your head.
“I know how she sees me now,” I said.
He tilted his head a little and waited. He didn’t fill the silence. That was new too. He’d learned to let me take the breath before I spoke.
I worked my fingers together in my lap. “Before, I thought it was the glass. Like if the glass broke, she couldn’t. Or if it wasn’t looking right at me, she couldn’t.”
Dad’s brow furrowed, just a little, the same look he’d had in that close-up when he was kneeling beside me that first night. But he stayed still.
“It’s not the glass,” I said. “Mommy said it so she can still see me, but I think she meant I can still see her. In here.”
I pressed my palm flat against my chest, over my heart, like I’d seen Mom do in the photo. My voice was small and it trembled, but I didn’t cry. “Because I remember her voice. Even when I’m not holding it.”
Dad’s mouth opened and then closed. He looked down at his left hand where it rested on his knee. The wedding band was there, catching the same thin light. He turned it slowly with his thumb the way he always did when he was thinking. He didn’t take it off. He never did.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “That’s right, Sofe.”
He lifted his hand so I could see the ring. “This is like your frame. I don’t need it to remember your mom. I remember her when I’m at the gas station, or in the parking lot at work, or making dinner. But I wear it anyway. Because it helps me feel close to her. It’s okay to want something to hold.”
I looked at his ring, then at my frame on the shelf. The parallel settled between us without him having to explain it too much. I got it.
“So I don’t have to hold it all the time for her to see me?” I asked.
“You don’t,” he said. “She’s part of how you remember. That doesn’t break.”
He reached out and tucked my bow straight. His hand was warm.
In the doorway, Jenna was standing. I saw her in the mirror on my closet door before I turned around. She had on her cream sweater and she was holding two mugs of coffee, one for her and one for Dad. She didn’t come in. She didn’t say good morning in her bright voice or try to add anything to what Dad and I were saying. She just stood there, against the doorframe, and watched us with a soft look. Her posture was the same neutral, careful one from that first night, but it didn’t feel stern anymore. It felt respectful.
She met my eyes in the reflection and gave me a tiny nod, like she was saying I’ve got what you’re saying, I’m not going to step in.
Dad noticed her then and glanced over his shoulder. She smiled at him but stayed where she was.
I turned back to the bookcase. The bunny with the blue ears had tipped over in the night. I got out of bed, my feet cold on the wood floor, and went to fix it. I stood in front of the shelf and straightened the bunny, then touched the edge of the silver frame with one finger. I didn’t pick it up.
“Is it okay there?” I asked Dad.
“It’s perfect there,” he said. “She can see you great from there.”
May you like
I knew he didn’t mean it literally anymore, that Mom was looking through the glass. He meant what I meant now. That remembering was the seeing. I left the frame facing my bed and climbed back onto my blanket.
Jenna finally took one step into the room and set Dad’s mug on my dresser without coming any closer to the bed. The boundary held, easy this time.
