Chapter 8 - Two Holes In Light Wood
I sat on the floor of my bedroom and turned the block over in my hands until the light caught the two holes straight through.
That was how I'd always held it. Against my chest, both thumbs pressed over the top. But that afternoon after the tray and the slip of paper with the phone number on it, I did something different. I tipped it. I looked at the bottom. The wood there was lighter, smoother from my palms. There was a thin, dark line where the grain split. I folded the slip as small as I could and tried to push it into one of the holes. It didn't fit right. I tried the other. My fingers were shaking a little.
I didn't know why I wanted to hide it inside the block. It just felt like the one place no one would look. Or the one place no one was allowed to look.
The door opened and I froze. I shoved the folded paper under my leg.
It was Elena. She didn't knock the way my mother did, one quick tap and then pushing in. She knocked and waited.
"Hey," she said softly. She was out of the burgundy dress, in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. She had a laundry basket on her hip. "You okay in here with the light off?"
I nodded. I hadn't realized I hadn't turned the lamp on.
She set the basket down and sat on the carpet across from me. Not too close. She looked at the block in my lap.
"You've had that a long time," she said.
I turned it again. The bottom to top. Top to bottom.
"Do you remember who gave it to you?" she asked.
I shook my head, but not really. I remembered someone's hands. Older hands.
"Your grandmother," she said. Her voice stayed even. "Your mom's mom. Before she got sick."
She didn't move closer. She just talked, low and steady, like she was folding something in her mind.
"She had that little apartment over by the highway, remember? Second floor, the one with the balcony that looked at the parking lot? She had all those plants. And that table where she did crosswords."
I did remember. The smell of coffee that had sat too long. The radiator that clicked. She'd let me sit on the floor while she worked with wood. Not big things. Small things.
Elena smiled a little. "She made that for you. She brought it here the last time she visited. You were two. She'd carved it herself. Pine, I think she said. She sanded it for hours so there wouldn't be any splinters."
I ran my thumb over the edge. It was completely smooth.
"What did she say?" I asked. My voice was small.
Elena looked at me then, really looked. "She said, 'This is for Sofia.' She said it right in the kitchen. I was there. Your mom was there. She put it in your hands herself."
The name in that memory didn't feel like the hallway. It felt warm. Like the apartment.
"Your dad," Elena went on, after a pause, "he didn't like it much after she passed. He said you were getting too old for baby toys. He put it in the donation box in the garage. With the blankets and the books you'd outgrown."
I felt my chest get tight. I pressed the block harder against my sweater.
"I found it on top," she said. "I took it out. I washed it. I put it back on your shelf when he was at work. I told your mom you kept asking for it, which was true. You did."
I remembered that, in a hazy way. Waking up and it being gone. And then it being back. I thought I'd dreamed it.
"He didn't notice," she said. "Or he pretended not to."
She leaned forward just an inch, her hands resting on her knees, open.
"Can I tell you something about that block?" she asked. I nodded.
"Those two holes," she said. "She didn't make them because it was supposed to be for a boy. She made them because you liked to put your fingers through them. You did it the first minute she gave it to you. You held it up to your eye and looked through. She laughed so hard."
I looked down at the holes. I slipped my pinky through one, like I'd done a thousand times when I was nervous. It fit perfectly.
It had never been a boy toy. It wasn't a girl toy. It was just mine. It was Sofia's. She'd made it for Sofia before anyone told me I wasn't her.
I unfolded the slip from under my leg. I didn't need to hide it in the wood anymore. I folded it again, neater this time, and pressed it into my palm. Then I picked up the block with my other hand.
"It stays with me," I said.
Elena nodded. "Yes."
"Not because they said," I said, choosing the words slowly. "Because I want it."
May you like
"Yes," she said again. Her eyes got shiny, but she didn't cry. She just breathed.
I held the block against my chest, the way I always had, but it felt different. Not like a shield I was hiding behind. Like something I'd chosen to carry. The light wood was warm from my hands. The two holes were exactly where they should be.
