Chapter 4 - The Hallway Between Kitchen And Stairs
She didn't ask me if I wanted water. She asked my mother.
We were still in the foyer and my mother's hand was still on my shoulder from where she'd knelt. The maid had stood up slowly after my father said that one word, and the air had gone thin. I could hear the chandelier humming faintly overhead.
"He hasn't had anything since lunch," the maid said, quiet, looking at my mother and not my father. "Can I get him some water?"
My mother glanced at my father. He gave a small nod, his glass still in his tattooed hand. That was permission. My mother let go of my shoulder.
"Go on," she whispered to me. "Don't spill."
I followed the maid across the checkered floor, past the silver tray still lying where it had fallen. My brown shoes made a soft sound on the marble and then no sound at all when we turned into the service hallway. The hallway was narrow and cooler than the foyer, with cream walls that had no paintings, just a light switch and a framed housekeeping schedule. The kitchen door was at the end.
Inside, the kitchen was warm from the dishwasher. The counters were white and cleared except for a cutting board and a line of little glass jars. She closed the door behind us halfway, not all the way, so she could hear if anyone came.
She filled a small plastic cup with water from the tap and set it on the counter in front of me, but she didn't push it toward me. She knelt again so we were level. Up close I could see the white trim on her burgundy dress and the way her bun had come a little loose.
"You okay?" she asked.
I nodded. I had my block against my chest with both hands the whole time. My fingers had gone white around it.
She reached for the drawer under the microwave, the one with tape and batteries and rubber bands. She took out a small tin sewing kit, the kind with a faded picture of flowers on the lid. She didn't open it right away.
"I need to show you something," she said, her voice low. "And then you need to tell me if you want to keep it or if you want me to put it back. Okay?"
I nodded again.
She flipped the lid. Inside were spools of thread, needles stuck in a little pincushion, two buttons, and folded at the bottom, a small rectangle of white satin. She unfolded it carefully. It was a name tag, the kind they sew into a collar. The edges were finished. In pale pink thread, in tiny careful letters, it said Sofia.
I stared at it. My throat did something strange.
"That was for a dress," she said. "A white baptism dress. Your mom picked it out before you were two days old. She had me stitch this for the inside. She said, 'So she'll always know it's hers.'"
She traced the letters with her fingertip but didn't touch them hard.
"I was here that morning," she said. "Second day. Your mom was still in the bed upstairs. Your dad hadn't come home yet. She held you and she said 'Sofia' like she'd been waiting to say it. She had me write it down so we wouldn't forget how to spell it the right way."
I didn't know what to do with my hands. I loosened one from the block and touched the edge of the satin. It was soft and a little stiff where the thread was.
"What happened?" I whispered. It was the first thing I'd said in hours.
She folded the tag back up just enough to show me she wasn't hiding anything. "Your father came home that evening. He said a different name would be better for the family. For pictures. For his work. Your mom didn't argue where anyone could hear. The dress went back in the box and into the closet. She never took it out again."
She looked toward the half-open door, listened, then looked back at me.
"I kept this because I didn't want to throw away something true," she said. "I should have given it to you sooner."
She held the tag out on her open palm, the way she'd held her hands out in the foyer. An invitation, not a grab.
I looked at my block. The two circular holes went straight through the light wood. They were big enough for my thumb but I usually just held the block flat against me. I turned it over in my hands. The tag was small. I folded it in half, then in half again, until it was a little square no bigger than a cracker. I pushed it carefully into one of the holes. It fit snug inside the wood, the pink letters tucked inward where no one could see unless they knew to look.
The maid's eyes got wet but she didn't wipe them.
"There," I said.
She nodded. "Good. That's yours now. That's safe."
She closed the tin and slid it back into the drawer. She stood and poured the water I hadn't drunk back into the sink.
"Will you say it again?" I asked, before I could stop myself.
She knelt one more time and her voice dropped even lower. "I won't say it out loud again until it's safe," she said. "Not where he can hear. Not where she has to pretend she didn't hear it. But it's still your name. The block knows it now. I know it. You know it. That's enough for now, okay?"
I held the block tighter against my cream sweater. I could feel the little folded edge of the tag pressing against my palm through the hole.
May you like
"Okay," I said.
From the foyer we heard my mother's heels click on the checkered floor, coming closer. The maid stood up fast and handed me the plastic cup again, fresh water this time, like that had been the reason we'd come in here at all. I took it with one hand and kept the block locked against my chest with the other, where the name was now hidden inside the wood.
