Chapter 27 - The End
Fourteen months after the suitcase, Sophie packed a bag.
By herself.
A small pink overnight bag.
Not a suitcase.
Not yet.
We were going to my sister Hannah’s lake house for two nights.
Sophie had chosen the trip.
Dr. Morris said short, predictable travel could be useful if Sophie controlled the pace.
So she packed.
Three shirts.
Four pairs of socks.
One stuffed rabbit.
Rebecca’s photograph.
I watched from the doorway.
“You need pants.”
She looked down.
“Oops.”
She added two pairs.
Then tried to put six books into the bag.
“That’s heavy.”
“I need them.”
“You read one at bedtime.”
“I might read more.”
“You have never voluntarily read six books in two days.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Then removed three.
Progress.
The overnight bag had a zipper.
Sophie stopped with her hand on it.
I said nothing.
She looked at me.
“Can close.”
“Yes.”
“Not lock.”
“No lock.”
She zipped it.
All the way.
Then immediately opened it again.
Checked the photograph.
Still there.
Closed it.
No panic.
Not none.
Less.
That was enough.
At the front door, she put on sneakers.
“Are we flying?”
“No. Driving.”
“London?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
We had not flown since the trial.
Not because I intended never to.
Because Sophie was not ready.
One day.
Maybe next summer.
No deadlines.
She picked up the overnight bag.
“I carry.”
“It’s a little heavy.”
“I can.”
I let her.
Halfway to the car she put it down.
“Help.”
I took it.
No lesson about independence.
She asked.
I helped.
Inside the car, Rebecca’s framed photograph sat beside her.
Not because her dead mother was traveling in competition with the living.
Because Sophie wanted the picture.
Simple.
At the first gas stop, she asked:
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Does Mom’s money buy lake?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I can pay for the trip.”
“What does Mom money buy?”
“Things for you when the trustee thinks they fit the rules.”
“Who trustee?”
“People at Harbor.”
“Are they boss?”
“Of the trust.”
“Are you boss?”
“Of some things.”
She sighed.
“Everybody boss little.”
I laughed.
“That is probably healthier.”
She did not understand.
Good.
Then:
“Does Celeste still live jail?”
“She’s still serving her sentence right now.”
“Does she have suitcase?”
“I don’t know.”
Sophie looked out the window.
“Does she miss me?”
That question still arrived sometimes.
“I imagine she does.”
“Do I miss her?”
I looked at my daughter.
“That’s yours to know.”
She thought.
“Sometimes pancakes.”
Celeste made cinnamon pancakes shaped like stars.
Memory chooses strange survivors.
“You can miss the pancakes.”
“And her little.”
“Yes.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Mommy dead. Celeste jail. You here.”
I hated the arithmetic.
“Yes.”
“You stay?”
“As long as I can.”
Not forever.
Parents should be careful with forever after death has already educated a child.
She accepted.
At the lake house, Hannah had left the guest room door open.
Sophie inspected the closet.
Then the space beneath the bed.
No one commented.
At bedtime she placed Rebecca’s photograph on the nightstand.
Then set the overnight bag on the floor.
Open.
I asked:
“Do you want me to leave the hallway light on?”
“Yes.”
“Door open?”
“Little.”
I left it open six inches.
Then she said:
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“Picture backwards.”
I turned.
The frame had been set face down accidentally.
I picked it up.
Started to place it upright.
Sophie held out her hand.
“I do.”
I gave it to her.
She turned the photograph.
Rebecca and baby Sophie beneath the maple tree.
Laughing.
The new backing no longer showed the secret instructions.
Those had been preserved elsewhere.
The picture was allowed to be a picture again.
Sophie placed it upright.
Then climbed under the blanket.
I kissed her forehead.
“Good night.”
“Night.”
I reached the door.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“When we fly someday, can I have window?”
“Probably.”
“Can bag go under seat?”
“If it fits.”
“Can I open it?”
“Yes.”
“Can I say no if scared?”
“Yes.”
She thought for a moment.
Then:
“Okay.”
I turned off the lamp.
Hallway light stayed on.
The overnight bag remained open on the floor.
No lock.
No adult hand forcing it shut.
Sophie rolled toward her mother’s photograph.
Within ten minutes, she was asleep.
May you like
And for once, the bag in the room was only luggage.
The End
