Chapter 14
Weeks passed. Counting helped. Seven days, then fourteen, then twenty-one. Carla called each Tuesday. Short check-ins. Asked Mom same list. Lock still on? Yes. Supplies up high? Yes. Eyes better? Yes. I said hi once. She remembered my name. Voice kind.
Dr. Patel visit clear. Skin healed. No bumps. Eyes clear. He gave Mom paper. Mom filed it with Carla paper. Drawer fuller now.
Chair stayed at table. Never by counter. I stopped asking to climb. Asked instead.
"Mom, can I get paper?" I asked one Saturday morning.
Mom said, "Yes. I get it with you."
She walked to closet. Got paper. We carried together.
Time felt slower but not scary slow. School normal. Mrs. Jensen gave only watercolors. No glitter. She let me wash brushes. Hands got blue but washable blue came off with soap. I liked that.
Grandma came every morning still. But she brought knitting. She sat at table while I played nearby. She said out loud when tired now.
"I'm tired, honey. Let's do quiet puzzle," she said once. And we did. Puzzle not climb.
On third Saturday Dad brought home gift. Not glitter glue. Big flat box. He set on newspaper spread on living room floor. Mom spread more newspaper. Edges taped.
"Safe craft," Dad said. "Washable star paint. You wanted sparkly star finished. We finish safe."
Grandma sat on floor too though knees popped. Mom sat cross-legged by me. I wore old t-shirt. Bigger than me.
Mom opened box. Bottles washable. Label said 6+ but with grown-up okay now. She read out loud.
"Washable, non-toxic, eyes safe-ish but still no eye rub," Mom said. "We do newspaper, smocks, hand wash after."
Dad opened paint. No burst. Squeeze bottles soft. Colors purple, yellow, green. Not same orange red that stung. These smelled like school.
Grandma handed me brush. Handle thick for small hand.
"Show us star you wanted," she said.
I breathed slow. Hand steady. I painted big star on thick paper. Tips wobbly. Fill patchy. Glitter inside paint already— safe glitter that didn't fall off. It shone without mess.
Mom painted small star next to mine. Hers wobbly too. She laughed.
"Mine worse," she said.
Dad painted border. Grandma dabbed dots. Newspaper caught drips. No floor debris. No cabinet fall. Four hands painting, bumping elbows.
Paint got on my arm. Purple smear like hospital but different. Washable. Mom saw me stare.
"Wash off after," she said soft. "Want to wash now or keep?"
I kept it while we painted. Then we washed together at sink. Warm water. Soap bubbles. Smear gone in one rinse. I watched water run clear. Felt proof.
We hung stars on wall with tape. My wall in bedroom. Row of three stars. Mine in middle biggest. Mom wrote date on back. Small letters: Safe Stars Day.
Grandma hugged me from behind. Her cardigan soft.
"You asked, we helped, no one climbed alone," she whispered. "That's fix."
Dad taped paper edge that curled.
Mom took photo. Phone click. She sent to Carla for file. Carla texted back star emoji but Mom read text out loud without emoji word.
May you like
"Looks perfect. Keep lock on," Carla wrote.
That night my room smelled like paint but good paint. Not chemical sharp. Window cracked. Stars glowed when hall light hit glitter. I fell asleep looking at them. No itch. No tears.
