Chapter 7 - The Chair That Spoke For Me
I stayed by the window because there was nowhere else to put me.
Rosa had slipped me a small bread plate behind the curtain when Vanessa wasn't looking. Just a roll and two thin slices of chicken from the kitchen tray. She'd pressed her finger to her lips and I understood not to chew loud. The city moved far below us, cars like slow ants on gray streets, and the glass was cool against my shoulder when I leaned.
At the long table they were on the second course. I could smell it even from where I stood. Something buttery and warm. Mr. Cole was talking about a building downtown with his name on the papers, and Dad was nodding in that way he did when he wanted to look interested for work.
"You can't beat that view for resale," Mr. Cole said. His fork clicked against the white plate.
Vanessa laughed, light and perfect. Her diamond necklace caught the chandelier light when she tilted her head. "Daniel always picks the view," she said. "It's his one vanity."
Dad smiled a little. He didn't look toward me. He kept his eyes on Mr. Cole, and I told myself that was his job, being polite to a guest.
My legs were starting to ache from standing still so long. Rosa caught my eye from behind Dad's chair and gave me a tiny nod, like hang in there. I tried to shift my weight without making noise. My pink lace skirt had bunched against the side of one of the gold chairs, the heavy ornate one closest to the window.
I pulled just a little to free it.
The chair leg scraped hard against the floor and hit the edge of the long glass table. The sound was louder than I expected. Glassware rattled all down the line. Water trembled in the tall glasses and one of the candelabras wobbled, the little flames leaning sideways before they straightened again.
Every head turned.
Mr. Cole stopped mid-sentence with his fork in the air. Rosa froze with the serving dish in her hands. Dad's eyes snapped to me so fast it scared me.
Heat rushed up my neck into my cheeks. "Sorry," I whispered. My voice sounded too small under the chandelier. "My dress got stuck."
Vanessa let out a laugh. It wasn't mean loud. It was worse. It was smooth, the kind adults use when they want other adults to laugh with them.
"Oh, clumsy age," she said, waving her hand like she was brushing crumbs off the table. "Six-year-olds and formal dining rooms. You know how it is, Robert." She smiled at Mr. Cole. "We love her, but grace comes later."
Mr. Cole gave a polite chuckle. "Got a niece just the same. Knocked over a whole gravy boat last Thanksgiving."
They both laughed. My throat got tight. It wasn't the laugh itself. It was how easy it made me disappear, how it turned me into a story instead of a person standing there with a bread plate in my hand.
I tried not to cry. I bit the inside of my cheek the way Rosa had once shown me without words, just by doing it herself when Vanessa corrected her. But my eyes filled anyway. One tear slid hot down my cheek and I didn't wipe it because I didn't want them to see my hand move again.
That's when Dad really saw me.
He hadn't just glanced when the glass rattled. Now he looked. His brow pulled together, and I saw his gaze drop from my wet eyes to the little plate I was holding by the window, hidden half behind the curtain. He realized I was eating apart, standing up like I wasn't allowed at the table he sat at.
He pushed his chair back.
The legs scraped loud against the floor, louder than mine had. His napkin slipped from his lap to the carpet and he didn't pick it up. He was halfway up, hands flat on the glass, staring at me.
"Elena," he said.
Vanessa's smile thinned. "Daniel," she said quietly, a warning tucked under his name.
May you like
Lunch stopped. Mr. Cole set his fork down. Rosa didn't move. The candelabra flames stood straight and still again, but the water in the glasses kept shaking in tiny circles.
Dad stayed standing.
