I Wore The Blush Lace Gown While My Three Year Old Told The Truth About Upstairs

I didn't think the staircase would feel that far. From the ballroom floor it had looked like decoration, something for photos with the chandelier behind it. Up close, with Lily's hand sweating in mine, each step sounded too loud against the music still playing behind us.

Marcelo walked on my other side, close enough that his sleeve brushed mine. He didn't touch me. He kept his eyes forward, the way he did when donors were watching. I could feel his control in the set of his shoulders. The back of my gown clung damp between my shoulder blades.

Halfway up, the belly shifted.

It wasn't much, just a low slip to the left where the strap had loosened. I had adjusted it in the car, tightened everything before we walked in. But climbing pulled it wrong, and suddenly the weight sat crooked against my own stomach. I stopped breathing for a second and pressed my free hand flat over the lace, like I was steadying a child. The foam edge dug under my ribs. I forced myself to keep walking, to smile at a couple coming down who moved aside for us.

Don't look down, I told myself. Don't fix it where he can see.

Marcelo glanced at me once. I couldn't tell if he'd noticed. Then he looked past me to Lily.

We turned onto the landing where the hallway went quiet. The ballroom noise dropped off, muffled by the carpet and the cream walls. The chandeliers up here were smaller, warmer. I could hear the air conditioner and our shoes and Lily humming under her breath because she always hummed when she was nervous.

Marcelo slowed his pace. He bent a little toward her, his voice low, not the stern voice from downstairs.

"Lily," he said. "Tell Daddy what you saw upstairs."

I tightened my grip before I could stop myself. Lily looked up at him, then at me. Her bows had slipped, one navy bow tipped sideways over her curls.

"The bathroom door was open," she said.

My chest went tight. I kept walking because stopping would have looked worse.

"Which bathroom?" Marcelo asked.

"The big one," she said. "With the white chair."

I knew the chair. The dressing suite had a vanity and a low upholstered chair by the window where I'd left my clutch. I'd gone up during cocktail hour because the side zipper on the gown had stuck. I remembered standing in that bathroom with the door cracked so I could hear if anyone came in, tugging at the zipper, finally unhooking the belly to breathe for two minutes.

"And what did you see on the chair?" Marcelo said.

Lily swung my hand a little as we walked. She said it plain, like she was reporting what color the walls were.

"Her tummy. On the chair. Like a pillow."

The hallway seemed to narrow. I stared at the pattern in the carpet, gray flowers looping over and over, and I could see it exactly as she must have. Me with my back to the cracked door, the prosthetic sitting lopsided on that white chair while I worked the zipper in the mirror. I had thought she was downstairs with the sitter. I hadn't heard her soft shoes in the hall.

Marcelo didn't answer right away. He looked at me then. Really looked. Not at my face. At my middle, where my hand was still pressed.

"Elena," he said quietly.

I couldn't meet it. I lifted Lily's hand and kissed her knuckles, just to have something to do. Her fingers were sticky from juice.

"She's three," I said, and hated how thin my voice sounded in that empty hall. "She mixes things up."

"I didn't," Lily said. She wasn't being defiant. She was just correcting me.

We reached the end of the hall. The dressing suite door was closed, the small brass number catching the light. My purse felt too heavy on my arm because I knew the key was inside it. Behind that door was the closet where I'd shoved the spare liner after I'd put the belly back on. Or had I left it on the chair? My memory blurred. I saw the zipper stuck, the sweat on my neck, rushing.