Chapter 11 - The Guest Room Floor at Two in the Morning
Sarah had packed Maya's little overnight bag fast while Mark stood out by his truck with his arms crossed. Star pajamas, toothbrush still in the plastic from a stocking, a stuffed rabbit with one ear chewed flat. Maya hadn't changed out of her red velvet dress until we got to my apartment, and she'd held that rabbit tight against the skirt like she didn't want to let either one go.
My guest room was really just the spare office with a futon in it. I made the bed with clean sheets and left the hallway light on and the door cracked. She asked if I would stay.
"Yeah," I said. "I'll be right here."
I put a blanket and a pillow on the floor next to the futon so my face was level with hers. She watched me settle in. The radiator clicked. Traffic hissed out on the wet street every now and then. She finally changed in the bathroom and came out swimming in those star pajamas, hair damp around her face where she'd tried to wash up herself.
"Teeth?" I said, holding up the toothbrush.
She nodded and let me put the paste on. After, she crawled under the covers and laid on her side facing me. I didn't turn off the little lamp on the desk. I left it low.
"You sleep okay with a light?" I asked.
She nodded again. Her hands were moving under the blanket, picking at the edge of the sheet. I just rested my arm under my head and breathed steady so she could hear it.
"I'm right here," I said. "If you need anything, you just say my name."
She blinked slow for a while. Then her breathing evened out. I thought she was under. I stayed awake listening to the radiator and thinking about Sarah's face at the door when she said take her tonight. Thinking about Mark's truck door slamming harder than it needed to.
I must have dozed because the crying woke me sharp.
It wasn't loud at first. A whimper, then a gasp. Maya sat straight up in the futon, blanket tangled around her legs, hair stuck to her cheek. Her eyes were open but not really seeing me.
"No, no, sorry," she said, crying. "Sorry, Dad. I'm sorry, Dad."
My chest went tight. I sat up slow and kept my voice low.
"Maya. Hey. It's me. It's Uncle Caleb."
She kept shaking her head, hands up by her face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean. Don't be mad."
I didn't reach for her right away. I let her see me. I put my hand flat on the edge of the mattress where she could see it.
"You're at my place," I said. "You're safe. I'm right here on the floor. Do you see me?"
Her crying hitched. She looked at my hand, then at my face. The lamp threw soft light across the futon.
"Caleb?" she said.
"Yeah. It's me."
She leaned forward then, all at once, and I caught her. She was shaking. I just held steady, one hand on her back, not tight. I could feel her heart hammering through the thin pajamas.
"You're okay," I said. "Just breathe with me. In, out. Like this."
I breathed slow and loud enough for her to copy. In through my nose, out through my mouth. She tried to match it and hiccuped. We did it again. The radiator clicked. After a minute her shoulders dropped a little.
"I had a bad dream?" she whispered.
"Sounded like a scary one," I said. "Do you want some water?"
She nodded. I had a plastic cup on the desk from earlier. I handed it to her with both hands so she wouldn't spill. She drank and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
I sat back on my pillow so I wasn't hovering. "You were saying sorry in your sleep," I said carefully. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
She stared down at the rabbit in her lap. Her fingers worked at its flat ear.
"Dad yelled," she said. "In the dream he yelled."
I kept my breathing even. "That sounds frightening."
She nodded. Her voice got smaller. "He yelled for real too. On Christmas. Before we came."
I didn't ask what. I just waited. The clock on my desk blinked 2:14.
She twisted the rabbit's ear. "I spilled the grape juice. On the white tablecloth. At Grandma's. It made a big spot."
I remembered the tablecloth. White with red stitching. I remembered Mark wiping fast at it.
"I tried to clean it," she said. "With my napkin. But it got bigger."
"What happened then?" I said. Soft. No lead.
"Dad took my arm." She touched her upper arm with her other hand, above the elbow. "He squeezed. It hurted. He pulled me to the laundry room where it's dark. He said I ruined Christmas. He said I was bad."
My stomach turned, but I kept my face still. I kept my hand open on the mattress.
"That would hurt and scare anyone," I said.
Her eyes filled again. "He got real close. His face was mad. He said if I cried, everyone would stare. He said don't you dare tell. He said if I told, Mom would be sad and it would be my fault. And you would... you would think I was bad too."
She looked up at me then, checking.
I met her eyes. "I don't think you're bad. Not even a little."
"Promise?" Her voice broke.
"I promise I believe you," I said. "You didn't ruin anything. Spills happen."
She let out a long shaky breath. "He said don't tell or he'd... he'd give me something to really cry about. When we got home. After."
The words came out in kid order, plain and jumbled. She wasn't quoting perfect. She was remembering the feeling of it. The grip. The dark laundry room. The whisper-close warning not to make a sound back at the table.
I nodded slow. "Thank you for telling me that. I know that was hard to keep inside."
"Are you mad at Dad?" she asked.
I thought careful. "I'm upset that you got hurt and scared. That's not your fault. Grown-ups are supposed to keep kids safe, even when there's a spill."
She leaned her head against my shoulder then, heavy and warm. I didn't move except to keep her steady.
"Will I have to go home tomorrow?" she whispered.
I chose each word. "Your mom and I are going to make sure you're safe. You don't have to figure that out tonight. Tonight you just sleep. I'm right here."
We breathed together a while. Her crying eased to sniffles. I got a tissue from the desk and she blew her nose loud and then laughed a tiny surprised laugh at how loud it was. I smiled so she saw it was okay.
"You want the light low or off?" I asked.
"Low," she said. She lay back down and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She put the rabbit between us on the edge of the mattress.
I lay back on my floor pillow. After a few minutes she whispered, "Caleb?"
"Yeah?"
"You stayed."
May you like
"I'm staying," I said.
Her hand slipped off the edge of the futon until her fingers just touched the blanket near my arm. I didn't move away. I stayed there listening until her breathing went even again, deeper this time, and the apartment went quiet except for the radiator and the far-off hiss of tires on wet pavement.
