Chapter 4 - The Envelope Stayed Sealed on the Kitchen Table
I set the envelope down on the kitchen table and it made almost no sound at all. That bothered me. I thought something that heavy should thud.
It sat next to the chipped mug where I kept my extra bobbins. Brown and flat and sealed tight along the top. My name wasn't on it. Nothing was written on it. Just the crease where his fingers had held it too hard at the door.
He didn't sit. He stood by the white refrigerator with his hands loose at his sides, like he didn't know what to do with them now that they were empty. The hum from the fridge filled the kitchen.
"You should take that to her," he said. His voice was lower in the house than it had been outside. He nodded toward the bedroom doorway.
I kept my right hand curled a little to hide the bandage. The sewing machine was still warm behind me. "I don't go in there with stuff from strangers."
"I'm not—" He stopped himself. He looked at the vintage machine, at the white fabric still under the needle. "It's for your mom. It's not for you to hold."
I slid the envelope an inch closer to me. Just with my fingertip. "Then you can wait till she says."
He breathed out through his nose. He looked toward the bedroom. The door was open about halfway. I could see the edge of the light cover, the dark shape of Mom's hair against the pillow. She hadn't moved since she spoke.
"Mrs.—" He started, then caught himself. "Ma'am? They asked me to make sure you got that tonight."
No answer at first. Just the sound of her breathing, slow and thin. Then she shifted under the cover. A small movement of her hand on the blanket. Palm down. Wait.
I knew that signal. That was her tired signal. That was her not-now-Lily signal.
"She's tired," I said.
He glanced down at his wristwatch. Gold face, black band. He didn't mean to do it loud, but his cuff clicked against it when he turned his wrist. He stared at the time a second too long, like he was counting how late he already was.
"I've got somewhere to be," he said. More to himself than to me.
"Then go," I said.
He didn't go. He looked at the envelope again. "At least open it. See what it is. If it's money, you can—"
"No." I said it fast. My throat felt dry. "Mom opens mail. Not me. That's the rule."
He frowned. "Even when she's sick?"
I didn't answer. I tucked the envelope halfway under the edge of the fabric so it wouldn't slide off the table. The paper edge scratched against my bandage and I winced before I could stop it.
His eyes dropped to my fingers. "Does that need—"
"It's fine," I said. "I just have to keep sewing."
He stepped closer to the table. For a second I thought he was going to pick the envelope back up. My shoulders went tight. But he just rested his fingertips on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. The small tattoo on his hand moved when his knuckles flexed. A dark mark, nothing I could read from where I sat.
From the bedroom, Mom coughed. A soft, wet sound she tried to muffle in the pillow. I started to stand, but she lifted two fingers off the blanket and then let them drop. Stay.
He heard it too. He turned his head toward that doorway and his jaw tightened. He checked his watch again, then looked at me, then at the sealed envelope under my hand.
"You keep holding onto it, then," he said. "Don't lose it."
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"I won't," I said.
He pulled the chair out a little, like he might finally sit and wait, but he didn't sit down. He just stood there behind it, stuck between the refrigerator and the table, listening to Mom breathe.
