Chapter 4 - Tree Lights And Small Hands
I waited until the plates were cleared and the adults had split into their usual groups before I moved. My brother Mark was at the dining table with his coffee, talking football with my dad. The moms were stacked up by the kitchen counter cutting pie. That left a small window with the kids camped out by the tree, and I took it.
Maya was sitting cross-legged on the rug under the lit tree with red ornaments, not playing. Her cousins had dumped out a box of wooden train tracks and were snapping them together, loud and happy. She had her back halfway to them, her hands in her lap picking at the edge of her red short-sleeve velvet dress. When the lights blinked, the red caught it and glowed.
I lowered myself down to the floor a few feet from her. My knees popped. I didn't crouch this time, just sat, so I wasn't looming over her.
"That spot taken?" I asked.
She shook her head. She didn't look up right away. Her fingers kept twisting the velvet.
For a minute I just sat with her and watched the trains. I could hear Mark laugh from the other room. It was a normal laugh. That was what made my stomach turn.
"You like the low branches best?" I said, nodding at the tree.
She glanced up. "They're prettier down here."
"Yeah," I said. "Up top's too bright. Hurts my eyes."
That got a tiny almost-smile. She reached out and touched one of the red ornaments, just with the tip of her finger, and let it swing. Her hand was shaking a little. She tucked it back fast.
I kept my voice low, the way you do when you don't want the other kids to listen in. "Hey. About what you told me by the door. I been thinking about it."
She went still. Her shoulders came up. She started rubbing her thumb hard across her other knuckles.
"You don't have to say it again," I said quick. "I mean it. I'm not gonna make you."
She nodded, but she didn't relax. The train crashed behind us and one of the boys yelled. She flinched.
I leaned a little closer so the tree lights were between us and the hallway. "Can I ask just a small thing? So I can understand better?"
She looked toward the dining room doorway, checking if her dad could see. He couldn't. The wall blocked him.
"What small thing?" she whispered.
I chose the words careful. "You said it was something Dad wouldn't want me to know you told. Is it something that happened here? In this house?"
She pulled at a loose thread on her dress hem. "Uh-huh."
My heart was beating too loud. I tried to keep my face plain. "At Christmas? Or before?"
"Before too," she said. Her voice was so thin I had to lean in. "But here too."
I nodded slow. "Okay. Thank you for telling me that part."
She looked at the ornament again. She didn't want to say the next thing. I could see her deciding whether she already said too much. Her hands started fidgeting worse, lacing and unlacing.
"You don't have to name it," I said. "What about where? Like... kitchen? Outside?"
She shook her head at each one. Then she glanced past me, down the hall toward the back bedrooms. Just a flick of her eyes, but she did it twice.
"The back?" I asked quietly.
She bit her lip and nodded.
"The spare room? The bathroom back there?"
She shook her head. She lifted one hand and pointed with just one finger, low by the rug so nobody else would see. Down the hall.
"Garage?" I guessed. The garage was off that hall. Cold, concrete, where Mark kept his tools.
She shook her head again. Her finger dropped. She whispered, "His room."
I felt cold run up my neck. "Whose room, honey? Grandma's house has a lot of rooms."
"You know," she said, and her eyes filled. "Where Dad sleeps when we come."
The guest room at the end of the hall. My parents kept it for Mark and Maya when they visited from across town. Double bed, blinds that never quite closed. I had slept in there myself a hundred times as a kid.
I didn't ask what happened in there. I wouldn't do that to a five-year-old on the floor at Christmas with trains crashing behind her. I just let the information sit.
"Okay," I said. "Thanks for helping me understand."
She was breathing fast now, like she'd run too far. "Are you mad I said?"
"No," I said. "No way. I'm glad you told me. I believe you."
"You promised," she said. It wasn't accusing. It was reminding herself.
"I know," I said. "And I keep my promises. I'm not going to tell him you told me. I'm going to figure out how to keep you safe without getting you in trouble. That's my job as your uncle."
She studied my face for a long second. Then she moved, just a scoot across the rug, and leaned her shoulder against my arm. She was so light. The velvet of her dress was soft against my sweater sleeve. We sat there and watched the red ornament swing until it stopped.
My mom called from the kitchen that pie was ready. The kids scrambled up. Maya stayed a beat longer.
"Will you stay tonight?" she asked, not looking at me. "Upstairs?"
My apartment was twenty minutes away. I'd planned to drive home after dessert. But the way she asked it — upstairs, where she could hear me — I understood exactly what she was asking for.
"Yeah," I said. "I'll stay. I'll take the couch upstairs by the playroom. You can knock if you need anything."
May you like
She nodded, and some of the tightness left her hands. She stood and smoothed her dress down with both palms.
I stood too. Down the hall, I could hear Mark pushing his chair back. I looked toward that guest room door, closed, with the hallway light pooling under it. I had a place now. And I had a reason not to leave.
