Chapter 14 - Packing While The Cake Waits
The sheriff didn't tell us to hurry. He just stood back by the fireplace where he could see the hallway, and the CPS worker said we could take a few minutes to get what we needed. My dad was still at the table with the paper he'd signed, staring at his hands. I didn't look at him again.
My sister took my hand. Her fingers were cold. She didn't ask if I was ready, she just pulled me gently toward the stairs and I went with her. My grandfather walked behind us, close enough that I could hear his coat still dripping a little. The marble was quiet under our feet except for the snow melting off his boots.
Our room was at the end of the hall on the second floor. We shared it, even though the house had five bedrooms. Two twin beds, one closet, one dresser we split. My sister opened the closet and pulled out our small duffels, the navy one she'd had since before Mom died and my old gray backpack with the broken zipper that stuck halfway.
She moved fast but carefully, like she'd thought about this before. She folded two shirts for me, my jeans, socks, underwear. She didn't pack everything, just what would fit. From the dresser she took her own sweater, the same cream one with the Nordic pattern she'd been wearing, and another one to layer. She glanced at me and kept her voice low.
"Bring your book?" she asked.
I nodded. It was on the bedside table, the paperback library book about wolves. She slipped it into my bag.
Then she looked toward the doorway. My grandfather was crouched by the door, keeping it open with his foot so the hallway stayed visible to the sheriff downstairs, just like he'd promised. He didn't come all the way in.
On the floor by the closet was the laundry basket where our winter things usually ended up. She reached past it and picked up the red scarf. Not the one from the pile downstairs, but I'd seen that same red on the floor by the coats earlier. This one was mine, the one Mom had bought me two Christmases ago, the one that had ended up on top of the wet coats when the woman in green made me hold them. My sister had gone down and gotten it while the adults were talking. It was still damp on one edge and smelled faintly like wet wool.
She didn't ask if I wanted it. She just folded it once and put it on top of my clothes in the backpack, like it belonged there.
"That's yours," she said quietly. "You get to keep it with you."
I felt my throat get tight and I nodded again. I hadn't realized I'd been waiting for someone to say that.
My snow boots were by the bed, the ones with white trim. I sat on the edge of the mattress to put them on and my hands were shaking a little, enough that the zipper on the side caught. My grandfather saw and stepped in just enough to kneel in front of me. His overcoat was still damp across the shoulders, snow still caught in the seams.
"Here," he said. He didn't make a big deal of it. He held the boot steady with one hand and worked the zipper with the other, slow so it didn't snag. His fingers were thick and cold. He got the left one, then the right, and tapped the toe lightly when he was done. "Good. Warm socks. You'll need them out there. It's still coming down."
I could hear his breathing a little, that same restrained way he'd been breathing since the entryway.
When we stood, my sister had both bags over her shoulder. She kept her hand on my back, not pushing, just there. We walked back toward the hall together. At the top of the stairs I could see down into the living room. The woman in green was standing in the doorway near the fireplace, right beside the table where the three-tier white cake sat with its red ornaments. She wasn't blocking us. She had her arms crossed and she was watching us come down.
The CPS worker was at the bottom of the stairs, the sheriff a few feet behind her. My dad hadn't moved from the dining area.
As my sister passed the living room doorway with me tucked against her side, the woman in green looked directly at her and said it in that flat voice she used when guests were listening.
"You'll be back when this blows over," she said.
My sister didn't answer. She didn't look at her either. She just kept her hand on my shoulder and kept walking, a little closer to me so our arms touched. I felt her squeeze once. The woman stayed by the cake and didn't follow.
My grandfather took the bags from my sister at the bottom of the stairs. He nodded to the CPS worker, said, "I'll get the car warm, keep the door open where you can see it," and she nodded back.
He went ahead through the entryway, past the damp spot on the marble where the coats had been piled, and out the open front door into the snow. I watched him from the hall. His car was parked in the driveway under the outside light, snow gathering on the roof and hood. He brushed the snow off the driver's window with his sleeve, opened the back doors on both sides, and started the engine. The headlights came on, warm against the blue of the falling snow. He left the doors open just like he'd promised, so anyone inside could see straight to the car.
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The heat started to come off it in a faint cloud. My sister zipped my backpack all the way shut and held it out for me to put on. I slipped my arms through. The red scarf was right against my back, and I could feel its weight there.
We were ready. We just hadn't stepped outside yet.
