Chapter 8 - The Curtain She Fixed When She Thought I Wasn't Looking
That morning after the quiet game, the room got too still.
She sat in the chair by the window and didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. My joystick clicked a little under my thumb, but I didn't move. Bear sat in my lap with his head tipped to the side.
I kept thinking about the big screen. About him watching. I wondered if she knew exactly when the little red light was on. Grown-ups act different when someone's watching them. I'd seen it at school pickup. Moms smiled bigger. Dads stood up straighter.
Maybe she was just good at acting.
I watched her hands. They were in her lap, loose. Her gold necklace moved a little when she breathed. She wasn't looking at me or at the corner where I thought the camera was. She was looking out past the white curtains.
Then a truck went by outside and the curtains puffed in. One side got stuck on the corner of my bookshelf. She saw it.
She didn't jump up fast like she wanted to show she was helpful. She waited a second, then stood up slow. Her knees popped a little. She smiled at herself for that, not at me.
"Excuse me," she said, quiet, and walked over.
I held Bear tighter. This was the part where most people would bump my chair out of the way without asking. Just grab the back and shove. They always said, oops, excuse me, like that made it okay.
She didn't touch my chair. She stepped around it. Wide around it, so her beige pants didn't even brush the wheel. She reached up and pulled the sheer curtain loose from the shelf.
The light came in brighter for a second and hit her eyes. She blinked. She breathed in through her nose. For a minute she just fixed it, folding the edge over so it wouldn't catch again. Her ponytail swung forward over her blue shirt.
"You like it open or closed more?" she asked, without looking at me.
I didn't answer right away. I wanted to see what she'd do if I didn't answer.
She didn't fill it in. She didn't say, you like it open, huh? Or I'll just leave it open, okay, buddy? She just waited, her hand still on the curtain.
"Open," I said, finally. My voice sounded scratchy.
"Okay. Open," she said, and left it open.
That was one.
After that she started picking up, but not like cleaning-cleaning. Just tidying. My pajama top from last night was on the floor by the bed. She picked it up, folded it once, and put it on the corner of the bed. She didn't comment on it. She didn't say we should put our dirty clothes in the hamper like a big boy or anything dumb like that.
She moved my library book so it wasn't hanging off the edge. She lined up my shoes under the chair. Little things. No big sigh to show how helpful she was being.
I watched her in the window glass. You could see her without looking straight at her. She rubbed the back of her neck once, like she was tired. Her smile was gone. She just looked normal. Not mad. Not fake happy. Just normal.
I thought that was interesting. If you were performing, you wouldn't let your face go plain like that.
Then she knocked my cup over. It was empty, on the nightstand. Her elbow hit it and it rolled and clunked on the floor.
"Ah — sorry," she said. She bent down fast to get it. Her earring caught the light.
She didn't pretend it didn't happen. She didn't laugh too loud about it. She just picked it up, checked the floor for a spill even though we both knew it was empty, and put it back.
"Still empty," I said before I could stop myself.
She looked at me. "Still empty," she agreed. "Good catch."
She didn't say she was perfect. She was clumsy for a second. That felt real.
The room got quiet again. The heater clicked. Outside, somebody's dog barked twice and stopped.
I shifted in my headrest and Bear slid. I caught him without thinking. My arm jerked the joystick a little and my chair beeped.
She glanced over, but she didn't come running. She stayed by the window.
"You good?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah."
She nodded back and sat down again. She didn't ask if I was sure. She didn't check my brakes or my straps. She just believed me.
I looked at the curtains moving a little. Open, like I asked. My folded shirt on the bed. My shoes straight. My chair exactly where I'd left it. Nobody had grabbed anything.
I thought about the screen in the other room. Maybe the light was on. Maybe it was off. She was doing the same stuff either way. Fixing without making a big deal. Waiting without filling the quiet. Messing up and just saying sorry.
My chest felt looser, like I'd been holding Bear too tight. I loosened my fingers in his fur.
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She wasn't acting for him. She was just like this when nothing was happening. That was different from everybody else.
I didn't say it out loud yet, but I thought it: maybe her calm was real.
