Chapter 2 - THE DRIVE HOMENina cried for nine minutes.
I know because I watched the dashboard clock change from 7:41 to 7:50.
She sat in the back seat wearing my spare gym socks.
Too large.
Gray.
Pulled almost to her knees.
I had found them under the passenger seat after carrying her barefoot across the driveway.
Her pink sock sat beside her.
The only piece left from the clothes upstairs.
At the first red light she asked:
“Why did Grandma throw away Daddy’s dress?”
Daddy’s dress.
That was what she called the yellow one sometimes.
Not because Andrew wore it.
Because he chose it.
“I don’t know.”
“She said I looked poor.”
“You don’t.”
“Grandpa said destitute.”
I gripped the wheel.
“Do you know what that means?”
“Poorer than poor.”
Apparently Vivian had explained it.
“Grandpa should not have said that.”
“Are we poor?”
“No.”
That answer came too quickly.
Not because we were rich.
Because I suddenly understood how long Sylvia and Charles had been teaching Nina to measure belonging through price tags.
“Would it be bad if we were?”
Nina asked.
I looked at her through the mirror.
“No.”
“Then why does Grandma say things like that?”
Good question.
“I don’t know yet.”
She was quiet.
Then:
“Is Vivian hurt?”
There it was.
The thing I had been avoiding.
“She might have a sore cheek.”
“You hit her.”
“Yes.”
“Because she was mean to me?”
“I was angry because she was mean to you.”
“That’s why?”
“That explains why I was angry. It doesn’t make hitting her okay.”
Nina frowned.
“You said people shouldn’t hit.”
“I did.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
There are moments when parenting would be easier if children were less logical.
“I was wrong.”
She stared out the window.
Then:
“Are you going to jail?”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
“I don’t know that anything like that will happen. But if Aunt Monique or someone reports it, I’ll tell the truth.”
Her eyes filled again.
“I don’t want you to go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
At home I gave her pajamas from the clean laundry basket.
Brushed her hair.
Put Andrew’s old college sweatshirt over her shoulders because she wanted something that smelled like him even though, eleven months after his death, it mostly smelled like our detergent.
She fell asleep in my bed.
I sat beside her.
Then opened my phone.
Eleven missed calls.
Sylvia.
Charles.
Monique.
Two from Charles’s attorney.
That last one was interesting.
At 8:16, my phone rang again.
Monique.
I answered.
“Is Vivian okay?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Is her face injured?”
“Red. She’s scared.”
“I’m sorry.”
Another pause.
Then Monique said:
“You should be.”
“I am.”
“You slapped my child.”
“I know.”
Her voice broke.
“She’s eight, Rachel.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes.
“I was wrong.”
Monique did not soften.
Good.
Then:
“They threw Nina’s clothes away yesterday.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“I knew.”
The room changed.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing?”
“I tried to stop Mom.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Monique started crying.
“No.”
“Where are they?”
“Gone.”
“All of them?”
“Most.”
“What does most mean?”
“One thing isn’t.”
“What?”
May you like
She whispered:
“The yellow dress.”
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