Chapter 3: Yellow Balloon In The Hallway
Dad didn't scoop me up like I thought he would. He slid one hand under my knees and the other around my back and let me decide how to hold on. My white sneakers left the wood floor and my dress rode up a little and I grabbed his yellow shirt with both hands. I remembered the blue bows in my pigtails bouncing when he stood.
I didn't look at Mom. I felt her looking at us.
He carried me two steps before he set me down so I could walk. The yellow balloon that had been up near the ceiling was lower now. Its string had drifted down closer to the doorway and it bumped softly against the frame when Dad guided me toward the hall. I kept my knees pulled tight at first, the way I'd been sitting, and then I had to put one foot in front of the other because his hand was light on my back, not pushing, just there.
The living room light stayed soft and even. Nothing changed except we were moving out of it.
The hallway was narrow with the same light wood floor and the same pale walls. The bathroom door was open and the light in there was brighter, a little whiter from the mirror and the tiles. The balloon's string trailed after us. It caught for a second on the top corner of the doorway, shivered, and then slipped free and floated into the hall behind us. It hung there at Dad's shoulder height, not moving much now, just turning a little in the air.
Dad knelt again. We had a little step stool by the sink that I used to brush my teeth, and he didn't make me stand on it. He knelt so his eyes were level with mine. In the living room he'd been on the floor with me. Here he was on the bathroom rug, one knee down, and the sink and the mirror were right beside us. I could see both of us in the mirror if I turned my head. I didn't.
He kept his voice low. The house was quiet enough I could hear the balloon string tick against the doorframe behind us.
"Can I look?" he said. "Just with the light. I won't touch unless you say it's okay."
I nodded. My throat felt tight and I swallowed.
He tilted his head a little and looked at my left cheek. I felt the air on it more than anything. The mark was still there, a little hot. In the mirror's light it looked redder than it had on the floor. He didn't frown exactly. His eyebrows came together and his mouth got still. He breathed through his nose, slow.
"Does it sting?" he asked.
"A little," I said.
He lifted his hand and stopped it in the air near my face. I could see his fingers, clean and still. He waited.
"You can," I whispered.
He brushed the very edge of it with the back of one finger, not the tip, just lightly enough that I felt the warmth of his hand more than pressure. I didn't flinch. I was holding my breath and then I let it out all at once and my shoulders shook.
"Okay," he said softly. "Okay, sweetheart. Thank you for letting me see."
He stayed kneeling. His eyes didn't leave my face. I stared at the square white tiles behind him and the yellow of his shirt and the pale blue of my bows reflected in the mirror.
"It was by the door," I said. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. "The big doorway. Where the coats are."
Dad didn't move. He just listened. I could hear myself breathing.
"There was a hand," I said. "On my arm. Like this." I showed him without touching, my fingers curled around air where my upper arm would be. "It squeezed. And there was yelling. Not at me. Loud."
I stopped. My hands found each other and twisted.
"Did you fall?" he asked. It wasn't accusing. It was careful, like he was putting words down one at a time for me to pick up if I wanted.
I shook my head. The bows tugged at my hair.
"No," I said. "I didn't fall."
The balloon made a soft sound behind us when it bumped the wall. Dad glanced back at it once and then back at me, as if he was keeping track of everything in the hall so nothing else could surprise me.
"Were you scared to tell him?" he asked. He didn't say a name. Neither did I.
I nodded. My eyes filled again and I wiped them with the heel of my hand. The cheek on the left still burned a little.
"I didn't want you to be mad at me," I said.
"I'm not mad at you," he said. It was the same as he'd said on the floor, and his voice didn't change when he said it again. "I'm right here."
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I believed that part. I leaned just an inch toward him and his hand came to rest lightly on my shoulder, not holding, just there. I wanted to tell the rest but the words stuck behind my teeth. The hallway was safe because Mom wasn't in it and the light was bright and Dad was kneeling and the balloon was just hanging there, yellow and too close. I kept my mouth shut around the name and stared at the sink.
Dad didn't push. He looked at my cheek once more under the light, and then he looked at me, and he waited.
