Chapter 11 - The Night The Hallway Light Stayed On
Helen called at 5:42 a.m. on Wednesday. I knew it was her because only she and Priya called before six, and Priya texted.
"Daniel?" Her voice was thin, congested. "It's Helen. I'm sorry to call so early."
I sat up. The bunny was on my nightstand where I'd left it so I wouldn't forget Friday.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I'm at urgent care on Morse Road," she said. "They think it's bronchitis. They want a chest X-ray and they won't let me leave yet. Maris is on a double in Cleveland until tonight. Ella's still asleep in the apartment. My neighbor was supposed to watch her at seven but she just texted she has to take her husband to dialysis. I wouldn't ask if -"
"Where's the key?" I asked.
She breathed out, relieved and embarrassed at once. "Under the mat there's a fake rock. The real one is to the right of it. It's got the blue dot. Apartment 3B, 247 Elmwood. Her backpack is by the door. She has peanut allergy, you remember. She'll need breakfast before the bus at eight-ten. Bus number fourteen on Elmwood and Hudson."
"I remember," I said. I was already pulling on jeans. "I'll be there in twelve minutes. Don't worry about Ella."
"The bunny," Helen said, coughing. "Do you have it?"
"Yes."
"Bring it," she said. "She asked for it last night."
I drove through empty streets with the heat on. The fake rock was exactly where she said. Inside, the apartment was warm and quiet and smelled like laundry. Ella was asleep on a twin bed pushed against the wall, curly hair spread across the pillow, white bow on the nightstand, cream lace dress hanging on the closet door from Saturday now replaced by a folded pink t-shirt and leggings for school.
I set the bunny gently beside her pillow and went to the kitchen. The fridge had the photo of me and Michael at twenty-one, and the drawing of three stick figures holding hands. A note in Helen's handwriting: *Ella — cereal + banana OK — milk in blue cup.*
At six-thirty she woke up. She saw me in the doorway and didn't startle. She just blinked and said, "You brought bunny."
"I did," I said.
She sat up and held it. "Grandma's sick?"
"She's at the doctor. She'll be okay. She asked me to do bus duty."
Ella considered this very seriously. "Do you know how to do ponytail?"
"Not really," I said. "But we can try."
We tried. I brushed her curls and put the white bow in crooked and she looked in the bathroom mirror and laughed for the first time that morning. That laugh made my chest loosen.
At the tiny table she ate Cheerios with the bunny propped against the blue cup. She told me about the tea on Friday, about how Mrs. Alvarez said daddies drink tea with pinkies up. She asked if I knew how to do pinky up. I showed her and she corrected me.
The bus came at 8:10. I walked her to the corner on Elmwood and Hudson where three other parents waited. The bus driver opened the door and checked my face.
"You dad today?" she asked, not unkindly.
"Standing in for grandma," I said. "Helen Morris. She has bronchitis."
Ella piped up, "He's my borrowed daddy. He knows my allergy."
The driver smiled and nodded me on file. Ella climbed the steps, turned, and waved with the bunny still in her backpack's mesh pocket.
May you like
I stood on that sidewalk until the bus turned the corner. Helen texted at 9:03: *X-ray clear. Antibiotics. Thank you. You tied the bow wrong but she didn't care.* I texted back a photo of the empty blue cup in the sink. She sent back a heart.
I went to work late, but I went steady, because for the first time I hadn't just promised a day - I'd covered a morning no one had planned.
