Chapter 9 - The Hall Light Stayed On
I was seven and I remember Grandpa Ray didn't go home that night. He said it plain like it wasn't a question, he'd take the couch if that was okay, and Mom didn't say no. She just nodded and went back to wiping the counter like her hands needed something to do.
The purple gift bag sat by the foot of my bed where he'd set it that morning. Ellie, my gray elephant from inside it, was already damp where I'd held her against my cheek. Grandpa made up the couch with the throw blanket from the hall closet. He left the hallway light on. It made a warm square on my bedroom floor through my cracked door, and I kept looking at it like it would move.
Mom usually brought juice at bedtime. That night she brought water in the yellow-orange cup. Same cup, white lid, same straw. Just clear inside. I remember staring at it.
"This isn't the same," I said.
"It's water tonight, baby," she said. Her voice was thin. "Doctor said we try water."
I drank a little because Grandpa was watching from the doorway and smiling. It tasted like nothing. I held Ellie tight to my chest and let Mom tuck the light blanket around me. Grandpa sat on the edge of the bed for a minute and his hand was heavy and warm on my ankle over the blanket.
"Ellie's on guard tonight," he whispered. "And so am I."
I fell asleep fast but it didn't stick. That's what I remember most. Waking up with my heart beating loud and my legs feeling buzzy. The clock in the hall said 11:14 in red numbers when I opened my eyes. Ellie had slipped down by my stomach. I grabbed her back up and pressed my face into her.
I cried without really meaning to. Not loud. Just whiny and hot. Grandpa was there before Mom. His brown shoes were off and his socks made soft sounds on the wood. He crouched by my bed.
"Hey, bug," he said quiet. "What's wrong?"
"I don't feel sleepy right," I whispered. "My head feels itchy."
He didn't tell me I was wrong. He brushed my hair back and checked my forehead with the back of his hand the way he always did. "It's the wake-up," he said. "Let's breathe through it."
Mom stood in the hallway with her phone glowing against her gray blazer. She still had her work pants on. She didn't come all the way in.
"She does this when she doesn't have — " she started, then stopped.
"She's okay," Grandpa said. "I've got her."
Around midnight I woke again. This time I heard Mom's voice low from the dining area. I slipped out with Ellie under my arm and stood where the light square ended. Grandpa was awake on the couch, a little notebook open on his knee and a pen in his hand. He saw me and put a finger to his lips, then patted the cushion next to him. I climbed up and leaned into his side. His tan jacket was draped over the armrest and smelled like car and mint.
Mom paced by the table with her phone to her ear. "I can't afford full-time, Karen. I told you that," she whispered hard. "And nights — if I lose the night shifts, we lose the apartment. I know. I know she's seven."
Grandpa didn't get up or call out. He just wrote something in the notebook and put his arm around me. I felt his chest rise and fall slow under my cheek. He wrote 12:03 — M up, fussy, no juice. Back down 12:20. I saw it upside down.
Jenna — Mom — ended the call and stood there rubbing her eyes. She looked at us for a long second. Grandpa met her eyes and didn't say anything. That quiet felt bigger than yelling.
She went to the kitchen and filled the yellow-orange cup again with water. She set it on my nightstand herself on the way to her room.
I woke once more near three and once near five, sweaty and cranky, kicking the blanket off, then wanting it back. Each time Grandpa was awake. Each time he wrote it down. By morning the hallway light was still on, pale now against the daylight coming through the blinds.
I was grouchy at breakfast and my eyes burned, but my head felt clearer than the day before. I ate my toast fast and talked too loud about Ellie guarding the door. Grandpa showed me his notebook page full of times and smiled tiredly.
May you like
"Look at you," he said. "Bright-eyed."
Mom watched us from the stairs with her phone dark in her hand.
