Chapter 2: What He Said When I Stopped Talking
The judge didn't raise her voice. She just set her pen down flat on the bench and folded her hands. That was louder than if she'd banged a gavel.
I remember the wood of the bench hard against the back of my legs and my hands still locked together in my lap. My cheeks were wet and I was trying to breathe without making a noise. My dad was half out of his seat beside me, leaned forward over the table with one hand pressed down, the way he did when he was trying to hold something in.
The judge looked at him, then at me, and her face didn't change. It stayed solemn and tired.
"Counselor, your client needs a moment," she said, and her voice was low and even. "We're going to take ten minutes. Ten minutes exactly. I will instruct both parties not to discuss testimony during the break."
My dad's jaw worked. He gave a tight nod, quick and sharp. He didn't look at the judge when he did it. He looked down at the table.
"Understood," he said.
I didn't understand anything except that the air had shifted. The court reporter stopped typing. The bailiff, a man in a dark uniform near the side door, stepped forward a little.
The judge stood then. Her black robe settled around her. "Ms. Alvarez will stay with the child in the hall," she said, nodding toward a woman in a gray cardigan I hadn't noticed before, seated two rows back. "Mr. Miller, you may step out, but do not speak to your daughter about what was said or what will be said. Is that clear?"
My dad nodded again, tighter this time. The muscle in his cheek jumped.
We all stood when she stood. The wooden bench creaked under me.
The hallway outside wasn't really a hallway. It was a small anteroom with a water cooler that hummed and a row of plastic chairs bolted to the wall and a window that looked out on the parking lot. The air was cooler there and smelled like old coffee. Ms. Alvarez — the caseworker, I learned later — held the door open for me and said, "Just right out here, sweetheart, you can get some water."
My dad came out right behind us. He didn't wait for Ms. Alvarez to move away. He crouched down in front of me so his eyes were level with mine. His light blue shirt had a damp spot at the collar. I could see the gray in his hair up close.
He put a hand lightly on my shoulder and smiled, but it wasn't a real smile.
"Hey," he whispered. His breath smelled like mint gum. "You need to stop the crying now, okay? You're making us both look bad in there."
Ms. Alvarez was three feet away, talking quietly to the bailiff by the door. I could hear the water cooler bubble.
My dad squeezed my shoulder just enough to make me pay attention. "When we go back in, you say what we practiced. You say you want to live with Dad full time and that Mom's house is scary. Just that one line. You remember the line?"
I remembered it. He'd made me say it in the car on the way to the courthouse, over and over until I said it without crying. I want to live with Dad.
I nodded because my throat was too tight to speak and because nodding was what he expected. He thought a nod meant a promise.
"Good girl," he whispered. "No more tears. Be strong for Dad."
Behind him, Ms. Alvarez turned back. "Mr. Miller," she said, not loud, but clear. "The judge said no discussion. I need you to step over to the far side, please."
My dad stood up slowly and held his hands up a little, like he'd done nothing. "Just comforting my daughter," he said, and his voice was suddenly louder, for them to hear.
Ms. Alvarez didn't argue. She just stepped between us and put a gentle hand on my back. "Let's get you that water, okay?" she said to me.
The bailiff stayed by the door, and I heard him say to Ms. Alvarez, low, "Mom's still in conference room B, per the separation order. She hasn't been in the courtroom."
So that was why I hadn't seen her. She wasn't allowed to be there at the same time as us. I felt a strange drop in my stomach, half relief and half panic, that she was somewhere else in the same building and couldn't come out.
Ms. Alvarez handed me a small paper cup, half full, and it shook a little in my hand. I took a sip and it was lukewarm.
My dad had moved to the far wall, leaning against it with his arms crossed, watching me. He mouthed one word — remember — and tapped his chest.
I held the cup with both hands and looked down at my dusty pink sweater where a tear had darkened the ribbing near my wrist. I nodded again at him so he would stop staring. Inside, though, I felt something click shut, quiet and hard. I wouldn't say it. I didn't know what I would say instead — my mouth was still too dry to make words — but I knew I wouldn't say his line. That was the first choice I made by myself in that whole fall, and I made it standing in that humming anteroom with a paper cup in my hands.
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The bailiff checked his watch. "Two minutes," he said.
My dad pushed off the wall and straightened his shirt. Ms. Alvarez looked at me and said, "Ready to go back in?" I wasn't, but I nodded. She opened the door to the courtroom where the warm wood and the flag were waiting, and the judge's bench was empty for a second longer before she came back.
