Chapter 6 - The Pocket After Midnight
I did not change out of my dress that night. Dad said I could sleep in my regular pajamas, the ones with the stars, but I shook my head and kept my hands pressed flat over my front pockets. The fabric was wrinkled from dinner and damp where I had cried into it. I did not want to take it off. If I took it off, someone could take what was inside.
My bedroom light was off. The hallway light made a thin yellow line under my door. I could hear the house settling. The ice maker dropped cubes downstairs. Then nothing for a long time.
I was not really asleep. I was doing what Dad taught me when thunderstorms kept me up. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, count to four. I kept my eyes squeezed shut and my fingers curled around the edge of my blanket. My dress pocket pressed against my leg. The clip inside poked through the fabric when I moved.
Then I heard his steps.
I knew Dad's walk. Soft socks on the wood hall, a little pause before my door. The knob turned slow so it would not click loud. The line of light got wider, then smaller again when he closed the door behind him.
He did not say my name. He stood there a second. I could hear him breathing. Then the side of my mattress sank down a little where he sat.
I kept my breathing even. In, out. In, out. My heart was beating so fast I thought he would hear it.
"Em," he whispered, very low. Not to wake me. Just to check.
I did not move.
His hand touched my blanket near my waist, light. He lifted the edge of it just enough to find the pocket. His fingers were warm and careful. He did not tug. He slid two fingers inside, slow, like he was afraid something sharp would cut him.
I felt the weight leave my pocket.
He went still. I heard him unfold something. Paper makes a sound even when you try to be quiet. One crease, then another. Then his breath caught.
I peeked through my eyelashes before I could stop myself. The hall light was still on out there and a little came around my door, enough to see. Dad had his phone in one hand, screen dimmed all the way down. In his other palm was my clip.
Half of it. The pink one with the little star that used to hold my hair back. One tooth was snapped off and the metal part bent. Vanessa had stepped on it. I had picked it up after. And under it, the note I had folded four times so it would fit.
Dad held the phone closer. He did not turn on the flash. He angled the note toward the dim glow from under the door. I could see his eyes move left to right. My writing was shaky because my hand would not stop shaking when I wrote it in the laundry room before dinner.
He read it twice. Then he looked at the broken clip again and turned it over.
"Laundry," he whispered to himself. So quiet I almost missed it. "Jesus."
He knew where it happened then. Not everything, but where. The laundry room had that cold tile and the smell of soap. That was where I had dropped the clip when she grabbed my arm. I wanted to sit up and tell him, but my body felt frozen under the blanket.
He lifted his phone and held it steady over his palm. I heard the soft click sound his camera made. Once for the clip and the note together. Once closer for just the note. He checked the pictures, dimmed the screen again, and breathed out through his nose.
Then he folded the note back exactly the way I had it. Four folds. I counted them by the sound. He slid it into my pocket first, deep, then the broken clip on top of it, the way I kept it so the paper would not fall out.
He smoothed the pocket flat with his thumb. His hand stayed there a second, warm through the dress.
"Okay, baby," he whispered. "I got it. It's safe."
May you like
He pulled my blanket back up to my shoulders and sat there a little longer. I closed my eyes all the way and made my breathing slow again. The mattress lifted when he stood. The door opened a crack, then closed. The line of light disappeared.
I kept my hand over my pocket until I fell asleep for real.
