Chapter 11: The Driveway With My Sneakers In His Hands
Dad didn't scoop me up all at once. He came to my bedroom doorway and knocked once on the frame, even though the door was already open.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed where he'd left me after he told me to stay put. My white sneakers were off. He'd slipped them off in the hallway so I wouldn't track anything in, and he'd set them by the door with my bows still tied. My pink dress had ridden up a little on my thighs and I kept pulling it down.
He crouched to get the sneakers. He didn't put them on me. He held them together in one hand by the velcro straps, and with the other hand he held mine.
"Can you walk with me to the car?" he asked. His voice was low. He was breathing on purpose, slow in through his nose. I could hear it.
I nodded. My left cheek still throbbed where the mark was. I didn't want to walk past the living room.
He didn't rush me. He stood and waited until I slid off the bed and my socks hit the wood floor. He kept my sneakers off the ground, carried them like they mattered. My blue bows were still in my hair, a little crooked, but he didn't fix them. He just held my hand and we took small steps together down the hallway. His steps were even and calm. I tried to match his breathing.
The living room was quiet when we passed it. Mom was standing by the front window with her arms crossed again. Grandpa Ray wasn't in his spot anymore. The yellow balloon had drifted down and was caught on the back of the couch. Dad didn't look at Mom. He kept his eyes on the front door and on me.
Mom followed us before we got to the porch. I heard her shoes on the wood behind us.
"Where are you going?" she said.
Dad didn't answer until we were outside. The air had cooled a little but the daylight was still there, that thin late-afternoon light that made the driveway look longer. Our car was parked on the street in front of the house, not in the driveway, because the driveway was full with two other cars from the gathering. The sidewalk was cracked in one place where the roots had pushed it up. I stared at that crack so I wouldn't have to look at Mom.
Dad stopped at the top of the porch steps and finally looked at her. He was still holding my sneakers and my hand.
"I'm taking her to get checked," he said. "And to write down what happened."
In the driveway next door, Mrs. Keller was standing by her open trunk with a casserole dish in both hands. She had been at the gathering earlier — I'd seen her green shoes in the kitchen. She must have been leaving too. She looked over at us and smiled the way adults do when they don't know what's going on.
"Oh honey, you heading out?" she called to Mom, then to Dad. "Y'all need anything? I was just bringing back the dish from the church potluck. I told your mom I'd leave it on the counter but I can —"
She paused because none of us answered right away. She looked at my socks on the concrete, at Dad holding my sneakers instead of me wearing them. Her smile got smaller.
Dad nodded to her, polite but short. "We're good, thank you."
Mrs. Keller shifted the casserole and said, "Well, tell Millie I liked her dress today. My granddaughter has one just like it. See you at school pickup maybe."
She got in her car but she didn't pull away right away. I could see her watching from her parked car, window down a few inches.
Mom came down one step closer. Her dark green dress moved when she moved, but her arms stayed crossed until she dropped them to her sides.
"You don't need to do that in front of people," she said to Dad, quiet but sharp. "You don't need to make this a thing. Keep it in the family. We can talk about it tonight after everyone leaves. You're scaring her."
I squeezed Dad's hand harder. I didn't want her to be mad.
Dad breathed again, that slow inhale. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't look at Mrs. Keller's car. He looked at Mom.
"I'm not keeping it in the family," he said. "She has a mark on her face. She told us what happened. I have to get it documented and I have to get her checked. That's not optional."
Mom's mouth pressed together. "So you're going to take her to some clinic and have strangers look at her and ask her questions all over again? For a cheek scrape? You think that's going to help her?"
"It's for her," he said. "Not for you. Not for them inside."
Mom looked at me then, really looked at my face. Her eyes went to my cheek and then away quick, like it hurt to see it.
"Millie, tell Daddy you don't want to go," she said. "Tell him you want to stay home."
I didn't answer. My throat felt closed up. Dad didn't tell me to answer either. He just shifted his hand so he was holding my sneakers under his arm now and could use both hands to steady me on the step down.
"We're going now," he said to Mom. "You can come to the clinic if you want. Or you can stay here. But we're going."
He walked me the rest of the way to the car, slow steps on the sidewalk, his hand around mine, my white socks picking up little bits of grit. He opened the back door and lifted me in himself — he didn't let me climb alone. He buckled the seatbelt and then set my white velcro sneakers on the floorboard right by my feet, side by side, with the bows on them still white and clean. My blue hair bows were still in my hair, both of them.
Mom stayed on the porch. Mrs. Keller was still in her car, and I saw her look from Mom to us and then down at her phone.
May you like
Dad closed my door gently, not slamming it. He stood outside for a second with both hands on the roof of the car, breathing. Through the window I could see Mom's silhouette in the doorway, and beyond her, the hallway that led back to the living room where everyone was still supposed to be having a gathering.
Dad got in the front seat and started the car. He didn't drive fast. He checked the mirror, checked me in the mirror, and pulled away from the curb with the daylight still hanging on.
