Chapter 10
I heard his keys before I heard his voice.
It was just after dinner. Mom had made plain noodles because my stomach still felt funny. Grandma had washed the pot from last night and left it drying on the counter. The wind chimes outside were quiet because there was no wind. Then the front door jiggled, and keys scraped, and Dad said my name through the door like he wasn't sure he was allowed to say it.
I hadn't seen Dad in three days. He worked the highway crew two towns over and stayed near the site during the week. He called at night but his voice on the phone sounded flat, like he was talking from inside a truck.
Mom stood up so fast her chair scraped. She looked at Grandma. Grandma looked at me.
"Stay here, sweet pea," Grandma whispered and squeezed my hand where the bear sticker used to be.
Mom walked to the entryway. I could see the door from the kitchen table. She didn't open it right away. She kept her hand on the lock.
"Mike?" she said.
"Let me in, Jen," he said. His voice was tired. "Carla Jensen called me. She said there's a case open. She said Maya was in the ER."
It was the first time I heard someone say my name in that house since the hospital without whispering it.
Mom unlocked the door but she left the chain on. Dad stood there in his work shirt with dust on the sleeves and his cap in his hand. He tried to look past her at me. I waved a little. He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You didn't tell me she was in the hospital," he said. His voice got louder on hospital.
"I was going to tell you tonight," Mom said. Her voice was low. "It was an accident. She climbed for a craft box. The box fell. She slipped on glitter glue. She's okay. Dr. Patel cleared her except the scrape."
"And the cabinet? And the CPS call?" He held his phone up. "Carla said she took pictures of the kitchen. Said you bought glitter that isn't for kids under six."
Grandma stood then. She stepped into the hallway with me behind her. Dad saw the sticker on my elbow and his face did something strange, like he wanted to cry but was mad instead.
"Dad?" I said. It was small.
He crouched down even with the chain still between us. "Hey, bug. You okay?"
I nodded. Mom finally slipped the chain and let him in. He knelt and hugged me, and his shirt smelled like outside and diesel. He held me tight and then checked my arms, turned them over like Dr. Patel had, looking for the paint that was already gone.
"You should have locked that cabinet two years ago," he said to Mom without looking at her. "I told you that latch was busted."
"I know," Mom said. She crossed her arms. "I bought the craft at the dollar store. I left it on the counter. Mom was folding laundry. We already told Carla. We told Maya. We're putting a lock on tomorrow morning."
"We?" Dad stood. He looked at Grandma. "You were watching her?"
Grandma's hands tightened on her cardigan. The same blue cardigan from the hospital. "I was," she said. "I put the box up high thinking she couldn't reach. I was wrong. I told Carla the same."
Dad paced to the kitchen and stopped when he saw the floor was clean, the chair pushed against the wall, the new lock still in its package on the counter. He picked it up.
"So we wait for a county worker to decide if we're fit?" he said. His voice cracked. "My mom already texted me saying maybe Maya should stay with her in Millerton till this clears."
Mom's face went white. "No. No one is taking her."
"I'm not saying taking," Dad said, but he didn't put the package down. "I'm saying maybe I should file for primary. Until the house is safe. Until you're not working seven to seven and leaving her with—" He stopped himself and looked at Grandma.
I felt my chest get tight like in the hospital bed. I had been holding noodles on my fork and my hand started to shake. Mom saw it.
"Stop," Mom said. It wasn't loud, but it was the same shape as Grandma's Stop. Don't touch her in the hospital, just scared and sharp. "Don't do custody threats in front of her. Don't."
Dad looked at me then, really looked, and his shoulders dropped. He set the lock package down gently.
"Hey," he said to me, softer. The same Hey from the last shot in the hospital, but now it was his. "I'm sorry, Maya bug. I'm not going anywhere tonight. Dad's just scared too. Okay?"
I nodded but I didn't feel okay. Mom and Dad stood on opposite sides of the kitchen with the clean floor between them, and Grandma stood behind me with her hands on my shoulders, and for the first time I realized the accident wasn't just about glitter. It was about who was supposed to be watching, and who left what where, and who got to decide where I slept.
May you like
Mom said, "You can stay on the couch if you want. We install the lock at eight when Carla comes to verify."
Dad nodded once. He didn't argue. He sat at the table and I climbed into his lap like I used to when I was smaller, and he held me while Mom washed my noodle bowl, and no one talked until the hallway light hummed.
