Chapter 3
I didn't turn the kitchen light on at first. The warm glow from the hallway was enough to see she wasn't there.
Sophie was still against my chest, her head tucked under my chin. Her legs had locked around my waist and her breathing had gone slow and even. I could feel the damp spot where her cheek had pressed against my uniform. The house smelled wrong. Not bad, just empty. Like no one had cooked in it that day.
"Where's Mom?" I whispered.
Sophie didn't answer. She just held tighter.
I carried her into the kitchen. My duffel was just inside the front door where I'd left it, zipped shut, exactly where it had been on the porch. I hadn't brought it any further. The blanket was still bunched by the threshold where she'd stood waiting.
The counter was clean except for two things. A set of keys that weren't mine, and a folded sheet of notebook paper with my name on it in Lauren's handwriting.
Daniel —
I shifted Sophie to one hip to pick it up. She watched my face the whole time.
I unfolded it. Lauren's writing was hurried, the lines slanting up.
Daniel — If you get this before I’m back — I ran to get groceries. Just the Food Lion for milk and bread. Mrs. Henderson next door was watching Soph for 20 min, she had to leave for her shift early. Soph wouldn't leave the doorway. She said she wanted to wait on her blanket. I told her 15 minutes tops. I told her not to open the door for anyone except you. I know how that sounds. My phone died in the parking lot — charger in the car not working. I’m coming right back. — L
Below that, smaller:
PS — Mom called again. She said we could stay with her in Ashe County until we figure out housing if they extend you again. I told her I needed to talk to you first. I didn't want to tell you over the phone like this. I'm sorry.
I read it twice.
Ashe County was an hour and forty minutes away. Lauren's mother had a double-wide outside West Jefferson with an extra room Sophie called the quilt room. We'd talked about it back in July, before the extension came down, as a joke. If they keep you longer we might as well move up there, save on rent. It hadn't been a joke anymore, apparently.
Sophie tugged at the collar of my uniform. "Mommy left a note," she said, like she was confirming it for me.
"Yeah, she did," I said. My voice sounded rough. "She went to get groceries."
"She said you'd come," Sophie said. She pointed at the paper. "She said don't open door."
The second part hit me a second late. Lauren had told a three-year-old not to open the door, and then left her with a blanket in the hallway, and Sophie had done exactly what she was told. She'd stood there and waited.
I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up and I saw what I'd missed while I was on the bus from Fort Liberty with my duffel between my knees and no service through the mountains.
Three missed calls. Lauren — 6:42 PM. Lauren — 7:15 PM. Lauren — 7:31 PM.
And a voicemail.
I hit call. Sophie rested her head back on my shoulder and watched the phone like it was something interesting.
It rang once. Twice. Then Lauren's recorded voice, the one she'd had since before Sophie was born.
Hey, it's Lauren. I can't get to the phone —
I hung up before the beep. She'd be driving. Food Lion was six minutes away, but the parking lot had dead spots, and her car charger had been busted since August. She'd told me on our last call, the one that cut off after four minutes because the Wi-Fi on base dropped.
I tried again anyway. Same result. I didn't leave a message. What would I have said with Sophie listening? Hey, I'm home, the house is empty, I'm holding our daughter in the kitchen.
I set the phone down next to the note and looked around the kitchen properly. The fridge had a preschool calendar on it with a turkey handprint that said Sophie. The sink was empty. The trash had been taken out. On the table was a half-folded load of laundry, mostly Sophie's clothes, small socks and those white pajamas with the purple cuffs. Another pair, clean.
She'd been trying to keep it normal. Groceries, laundry, neighbor covering for twenty minutes. The extension had thrown us from eight months to nine and then to almost ten with no fixed end date, and every call had gotten shorter.
"Momma will be back soon," Sophie said. She said it the way Lauren must have said it to her. Reassuring me.
"I know," I said. "We'll wait right here for her."
May you like
I didn't move toward the front door again. I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down with Sophie still in my arms. The blanket was still by the door, but she didn't ask for it. She was warm enough. I folded Lauren's note carefully along its crease and held it in my free hand. The duffel stayed where it was, zipped, untouched.
Outside, I could hear a car pass on the road, and then nothing. I kept my phone face-up on the counter where I could see if it lit up, and I waited.
