Chapter 2
His knees were still on the rug when the air in the apartment started again.
I hadn't let go of the book. The two halves were pressed so hard against my chest that the torn edge scratched my skin through my dress. My face was wet and my mouth was open but I wasn't making the loud cry anymore, just these small, hitched breaths that hurt my throat. From the sofa I could see Dad's white shirt up close, the way it pulled at his shoulders as he stayed low in front of Vanessa, and beyond him Vanessa's beige trousers and the pointed toes of her shoes. The city lights behind the sofa made a soft orange halo around all of us and the room felt too warm.
Vanessa didn't look down at him at first. She looked past him at me.
"Enough," she said. Her voice wasn't loud. It was flat and quick, like she was tired of the whole thing. She gave a little shrug with one shoulder. "It was just a book. She wouldn't stop whining about it."
That was the lie. I hadn't been whining. I'd said please. I'd held it out with both hands and said please give it, and she had taken it and pulled. I wanted to say that but my throat wouldn't make the words. I just pushed the two pieces tighter against me and closed my eyes again.
Dad didn't answer her right away. He stayed kneeling for a second longer, his hands loose at his sides, and I saw his jaw move. When he finally spoke his voice was lower than I'd ever heard it.
"What happened? Did you do this?" He wasn't looking at me, he was looking up at her. Then, without waiting, "You will never treat my daughter like that again."
The last words weren't shouted. They were clear and even and they made Vanessa's mouth press into a thin line. She crossed her arms in that satin blouse and the fabric caught the light.
Dad pushed himself up to standing then. He didn't touch Vanessa. He turned instead and that was when he finally looked at me on the sofa. His face changed. The hard look he had for her softened all at once and his eyebrows pulled together.
He came the two steps to the sofa and crouched. The leather made a soft creak when he put his hand on the arm near my leg.
"Hey, bug," he whispered. His hand was open toward me. "Come here. I've got you."
I didn't move. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to. I kept staring at his hand and at the book halves shaking a little in my own hands. I thought if I let go of one half it would be gone for good.
"It's okay," he said, quieter. "You can hold it. Keep holding it."
He slid one arm behind my back and the other under my knees. The white socks on my feet brushed against his shirt as he lifted me. I was six but I curled in like I was much smaller. I buried my face against his shoulder and the cotton of his shirt was warm and smelled like his desk and coffee. With both hands I kept the two pieces of the blue cover clutched between us, not letting even the corner slip. One half had the clouds, one half had the little cartoon trees, and the tear right down the middle was jagged and white where the paper had ripped.
He held me tight against his chest with one arm and steadied the bottom half of the book with his other hand so it wouldn't fall. He stood and stepped away from the sofa, away from Vanessa. I felt the shift in the air as he turned his back on her. That was the first time that night I could breathe without catching.
Behind us, Vanessa made a small sound, not quite a laugh.
"David, come on," she said. "Don't be dramatic."
He didn't turn around. He walked toward the hallway that led to my room, his steps slow on the rug and then quieter on the hardwood. I kept my face hidden and listened.
For a moment no one moved. Then I heard her shoes. Sharp clicks across the floor, past the desk where his silver laptop was still open and glowing, past the black bookshelf. The bedroom door opened. It closed with a soft but firm click, not a slam. Then the bathroom door inside it closed too.
Silence fell in the apartment.
It wasn't the good kind of silence. It was the kind that rings in your ears. The air conditioner hummed, and far away through the big windows a siren passed on the street below, but inside there was just Dad's breathing and mine against his shoulder. The living room with the big black sofa and the city lights was behind us now. We were in the hallway where the light was dimmer, away.
Dad didn't put me down. He just held me there, swaying a little side to side, his hand cradling the back of my head.
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"I know," he whispered into my hair, even though I hadn't said anything. "I've got you."
I nodded against him and gripped the two halves even tighter, because if I held them tight enough maybe they were still one book.
