Chapter 1 - The Juice She Held While My Daughter Wouldn't Let Go
Sophie had both arms locked around my neck and her legs hooked around my waist like she was trying to climb inside my shirt. She was in her pink pajamas with the small dark pattern, the ones she'd worn three nights in a row, and her long light brown hair was pressed damp against my cheek. I was standing in the living area by the window where the morning light came in soft and even across the wood floor, holding her weight with one arm while she whispered against my ear.
Across the short hallway, Claire stood by the white kitchen cabinets holding a clear glass of orange juice at chest height. She held it steady with her right hand, both hands wrapped around it, her dark hair down, her white top under her light gray cardigan and teal pants exactly like she'd gotten dressed for a normal day. Her rolling suitcase was right beside her, handle extended up, dark against the white cabinets. She was smiling. It was a calm, fixed smile that didn't move.
My name is Daniel and that morning my daughter wouldn't let go of my neck.
It was just after eight. The house was bright, the kind of bright where you could see dust in the window light and the grain in the wood flooring all the way down the hall to the kitchen. Sophie's breathing was quick against my collarbone. I shifted her higher on my hip and looked past her head toward Claire, and that was when I really saw the glass. The juice was opaque, thick-looking, without pulp separation, filled to the same line the whole way around. No condensation. Claire's grip hadn't changed. The smile hadn't changed either. She was looking directly at us, or at me, and she didn't blink much. The daylight from the window made the glass glow at the edges but the liquid inside stayed flat and still.
Sophie pressed her mouth closer to my ear and her voice was so quiet I felt it more than heard it. "She put something in dad's juice."
I didn't answer right away. I kept my hand on Sophie's back and felt the small bones of her spine through the thin pajama top. I could hear the refrigerator humming and the faint tick of the baseboard heat. My throat was dry and I had to swallow before I could get any air out.
"What did she put in there?" I whispered back to Sophie, low enough that I hoped Claire wouldn't catch the words.
Sophie tightened her arms. Her cheek slid against mine and her voice shook when she answered.
"After drinking that, I felt really strange. It was awful."
The words landed and stayed there. I looked at the glass again, at the way Claire held it up a little higher, level with her chest, like an offering. Her fingers were wrapped evenly around both sides and her smile tightened just a fraction at the corners, but otherwise her face stayed completely still. The suitcase handle beside her caught the light. She hadn't moved from that spot by the cabinets. She hadn't set the glass down.
I wanted to think I'd misheard Sophie, or that strange meant she'd had a bad dream or too much sugar or a stomach ache. But the way Sophie clung to me, the way her whole body had gone rigid around my neck, wasn't a stomach ache. I could feel her heart beating fast through her pajamas into my shirt.
Claire took half a step forward. Not a full step, just enough to close the distance between the kitchen hallway and where I stood holding Sophie. She kept the glass perfectly level as she moved. No spill, no ripple. Her eyes stayed on me.
"Drink it, it's very good for your health." Her tone was calm and soft, coaxing, like she was talking to Sophie but looking at me.
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I didn't reach for it. Sophie's arms locked even tighter and I felt her head tuck harder into the side of my neck, as if she could make herself smaller. The bright light from the window kept everything exposed, the white cabinets, the wood floor, the three of us in a line with the glass between us. Claire extended the glass one inch forward, just one inch, her hands steady, her smile still fixed, and waited for me to take it.
The hallway door was still open behind her. No one had drunk anything yet.
