Chapter 9
The city lights hadn't changed outside the window. That was the strangest part. The black sofa was still there and the bookshelf was still there and the torn book was still in two pieces in my hands, but Dad was standing now and he wasn't working on his laptop anymore and Vanessa was standing across from him and no one was moving toward the kitchen or the TV like normal nights.
My name is Sophie. I was six that night and I was still sitting where they'd left me on the Chesterfield.
Dad's voice was the first thing that broke it. He didn't yell. He took a breath and his shoulders came up and he looked at Vanessa and then at me and back again.
"You can't stay here tonight," he said. His beard moved a little when he swallowed. "Not after what you just did to her. You need to pack a bag, Vanessa."
I could hear the air conditioner humming behind the bookshelf. Vanessa didn't answer right away. She smoothed the front of her beige blouse with both hands, like she was wiping something off it. Her long dark hair fell forward and she pushed it back.
"You're telling me to leave my own apartment?" she said. Her voice was very calm. Too calm. "David, my name is on the lease. My clothes are in that closet. I pay half the rent. You want me to pack a bag because she cried over a picture book?"
"It wasn't just a picture book and you know that," Dad said. He was still kneeling at first but then he stood up slowly, so they were both standing. I could see his white shirt had a wrinkle at the elbow from where he'd been on the floor. "You tore her mother's book in half in front of her. You heard what I just said about where it came from. She can't sleep here with you tonight and feel safe. So please. Just for tonight. Pack a bag."
Vanessa looked down at me then. I was clutching both halves so tight my knuckles had gone white. The light blue covers made a crooked line where they'd been ripped. I didn't blink. I couldn't tell if she wanted me to say it was okay or to say I was sorry, but I didn't say anything. My socks had slid down a little on my ankles and I didn't fix them.
She turned back to Dad and crossed her arms. The satin of her sleeves caught the warm light.
"Fine," she said. "But you need to be very clear about what you're doing. If you make me leave tonight, you're choosing. You're choosing her over me. Over us. I have tried to make this work, David. I have tried to be patient with all of this. But I will not be put out of my own home and then invited back like nothing happened. So choose. Her or me."
The words hung there. No one moved to the curtains to close them. The city bokeh stayed blurred behind the sofa. I felt my heart beating in my ears. I remembered the way Vanessa's hands had looked tearing the book, and the way Dad had looked at his laptop before he knew, and now they were both looking at each other and waiting.
Dad didn't look at me when he answered. He kept his eyes on Vanessa.
"I'm choosing my daughter feeling safe in her home," he said quietly. "That's not a choice against you. It's a boundary. If you can't respect that, then I guess you've made your choice for both of us. But tonight, you need to pack."
For a second I thought she would argue more. Instead Vanessa let out a short breath through her nose and walked past him toward the bedroom. Her trousers swished. She didn't slam anything. She walked like she wanted us to hear every step.
Dad stayed in the living room. He came and sat on the edge of the sofa near me, not touching the book, just close enough that his knee was near my leg. He didn't tell me to put the book down.
"It's okay to keep holding it," he whispered. I nodded but I was still frozen, watching the hallway.
From the sofa I could see straight into the bedroom because the door was half open. The light was on in there. Vanessa had pulled her suitcase out from the closet, the dark one with the silver zipper, and it was open on the bed. She was folding clothes quickly, not neatly, just grabbing handfuls from the hangers. Beige blouses and another pair of trousers and a sweater. I could see her shoulders moving as she breathed. She paused once and put both hands on the edge of the suitcase and just stood there, her head down, her dark hair hiding her face.
She hadn't left. She hadn't zipped it. The suitcase was still open and the bedroom door was still half open and the apartment was so quiet I could hear the soft thump of each piece of clothing hitting the case.
Dad put his hand gently on the back of the sofa behind me, not on me, just there.
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"You're not in trouble," he said, so low only I could hear it. "Do you understand? You didn't do anything wrong."
I clutched the two halves tighter against my chest. The cardboard edge of the torn cover was digging into my palm and I didn't let go. Through the half-open door, Vanessa started zipping the suitcase, and the sound of that zipper filled the whole apartment.
