Chapter 11 - The Latch Let Go in My Dad's Hands
The screwdriver scraped again. That was the first sound I really held on to.
We were still on the cold floor of the storage room. Grandma's arm was around me and her breathing was thin in my ear. The fluorescent light buzzed over the shelves and the plastic bins. I could smell dust and laundry soap. My legs had gone numb from sitting.
"Dad?" I said. It came out small.
"I'm here, Claire," he said through the door. "Stay back from the door a little, okay?"
I pulled Grandma back with me a half step. She moved slow. Her hand shook on my sweater.
Melanie's voice cut in from the hallway. "You're going to wreck the door for nothing. This is ridiculous."
No one answered her. Metal clicked against metal. Then a grunt.
My name is Claire. I was eight that night, and I counted every sound because I couldn't see anything past that door.
My dad tried the knob again. It rattled hard but didn't turn. I heard his duffel bag shift on the floor and his shoes move on the concrete. He breathed out through his nose like he did when he was carrying something heavy.
"The latch is cheap," he said, more to himself. "Hold still."
The screwdriver slipped into the crack by the frame. I saw the door shake in its frame. A line of warm yellow light from the hallway got wider, then thinner, as he worked it. Paint dust fell onto the floor by my shoes.
"Stop," Melanie said. "You don't get to tear up my house."
"It's my house too," Dad said. His voice was flat. He didn't yell. The scraping got louder.
Grandma squeezed my hand. "Easy," she whispered to me. "When it moves, let him come to us."
The door popped. Not big at first. Just the latch giving a little. Then Dad pushed his shoulder into it and the whole frame creaked. Warm hallway air spilled in and hit my face. It smelled like wood and cleaner and him, like his coat after a trip.
And then I saw him.
He was crouched at the doorway in his dark coat over his buttoned shirt, the screwdriver still in his hand. His short dark hair was damp on his forehead. His eyes found me first. That was the first time I saw my dad that night, really saw him, and I started crying before I could stop it.
"Dad," I said.
"Hey. Hey, I'm here," he said. He dropped the screwdriver and held out his hand. "Come here, baby."
I didn't run. My legs wouldn't do it right. I half crawled, half walked to him and he caught me under the arms and pulled me over the threshold into the warm hall. The floor changed from cold concrete to the runner rug. His coat was rough against my cheek. He was breathing hard.
For a second I just held on to his coat and listened to Melanie behind him. "See? She's fine. You're making this into something it's not."
Dad didn't look at her. He looked past me into the cool storage room where Grandma was still sitting by the red crate. Her short gray hair was flat on one side. She tried to stand using the shelf and her knees buckled.
"Mom," Dad said. He handed me gently to the side, just enough to get both hands free. He stepped back into the cold light and put one arm firm around Grandma's back. "I've got you."
She leaned heavy on him. "I'm all right," she said, but her voice wobbled. "Just get Claire warm."
He steadied her step by step over the doorway lip. One foot into the hallway. Then the other. The warm light hit her face and I saw how pale she was. Dad kept his arm around her until she had the wall.
I stood in the hallway between them with my light sweater bunched in my fists. My pants were dusty at the knees. Behind Dad, Melanie stood with her arms crossed, her dark hair still pulled back, her blouse wrinkled at the shoulder from leaning on the door.
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Nobody was locked in anymore. We were out, all three of us in that narrow warm hall, with the cool buzzing room open behind us. Dad kept one hand on me and one on Grandma like he was afraid if he let go one of us would fall.
"Stay with me," he said quietly. Not to Melanie. To us.
