Twenty-five cards. The twenty-sixth was with Eric.
The early ones were what you’d expect. Five stick figures holding hands. A sun. Dad in a hospital bed, wearing a crown.
By card twelve, only four figures held hands.
“Staying away from it.”
Lily stood apart, beside a house with a green roof and a fat tree with a tire swing.
I knew that house. My sister Jess lives there. I’d pushed Lily on that swing every summer.
The last card showed all five again. Lily was scribbled out in black marker, so hard the paper had torn.
I opened her closet.
Behind the coats sat a red suitcase with black dots and two antennae on the handle. A ladybug.
It would’ve been funny if I weren’t about to cry.
By card twelve, only four figures held hands.
Inside:
pajamas.
A stuffed rabbit missing one ear.
A toothbrush in a sandwich bag.
A jar of coins labeled RENT, holding fourteen dollars and thirty-seven cents. (I counted. Obviously.)
Six months, and it was still packed.
I opened her closet.
A kid who’d given up on leaving would’ve dumped those pajamas back in a drawer ages ago.
This wasn’t a forgotten suitcase. This was a suitcase waiting by a door.
Tucked in the rabbit’s arm was a folded paper. On the outside, in crayon: DAD. NOT YET.
I held it for three seconds. Then I opened it. I’d apologize in the morning.
Dad, I’m sorry I said it. I didn’t mean it. If you wake up, please don’t tell Mom.
Said what?
Six months, and it was still packed.
I put it back in the rabbit’s arm and sat on her floor until my knees hurt.
At two a.m. a floorboard creaked.
Lily stood at the basement door in her pajamas, one hand on the knob. Testing it.
“Lily?”
She jumped.
“I’m practicing.”
This was a suitcase waiting by a door.
“Practicing what, baby?”
“Not going down.”
“Why?”
“If nobody goes down, nobody falls.”
“Dad fell. Not you.”
“I know.”
At two a.m. a floorboard creaked.
“Then why check the door?”
“In case it wants somebody else.”
It doesn’t. A staircase wants nothing. Try explaining that to a nine-year-old at two a.m.
I walked her back to bed and held her hand until she slept. I didn’t push. Pushing made her cry.
Then I stood at that door myself, listening to the quiet house.
I called Jess before breakfast. For some reason, my daughter wanted to live with her specifically.
“Not going down.”
“Claire? Everything okay?”
“Lily packed a suitcase the morning Eric fell. She drew your house.”
“She wanted to come here?”
“She wanted to go away. Jess, do you remember the Thursday before the accident?”
“When Lily stayed with me?”
“Yeah. Did anything happen?”
“Dad fell. Not you.”
Jess went quiet.
“Claire, remember our phone call that afternoon?”
“What about it?”
“Lily was in the living room. I thought she was watching TV.”
“And?”
“I had you on speaker. We were talking about you and Eric.”
“She wanted to go away.”
My stomach dropped.
“Jess. Did she hear us?”
“I didn’t think so. But she got awfully quiet afterward.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You spent six months at that hospital, Claire. I wasn’t going to give you another thing to worry about.”
“I wish you had.”
