Page 1 of Smoke Signals

1

HARTLEY

I stare at the space heater while sitting on the edge of my bed, one sock on, one sock half-rolled and clinging to my toes. I wonder if today will be the day the heater shorts out and kills the power to the whole building. Again. I nudge it with my foot carefully, and it answers with a whine.

“Okay,” I mutter. “I hear you. Don’t kick you around.”

Chicago winters don’t care that it’s March. The wind still howls between buildings, rattling the windowpanes. My bedroom in this apartment never quite warms up.

I tug my other sock on and shuffle down the hallway. The two bedroom apartment is medium-sized, a second floor walk up with a staircase that smells like old wood and cooking oil. Two bedrooms that back home would have been closets instead of actual rooms.

The space heater starts to blow once more behind me. At least it’s only in my room, and it’s not radiator heat. My brother Lance used to joke that radiators were just angry kettles waiting to explode. God do I miss that fucker.

I flick on the kitchen light and it buzzes before it steadies. The counter is cluttered with yesterday’s mail, a half-folded school flyer, and a pink plastic cup with a cartoon fox on it. Alaska’s. She lines them up like trophies on the counter, always in the same order, like if she keeps everything in its place then nothing else can fall apart.

The coffeemaker’s already brewed my cup, so I head to the fridge and add the almond creamer and to top it off I add white mocha syrup. I give it a stir and take the first sip, leaning my hip against the counter, rubbing sleep from my eyes and listening to the city wake up outside—buses going by, someone shouting, a car horn that sounds way too aggressive for six thirty in the morning.

“Alaska,” I call down the hall. “Five minutes.”

No answer.

I don’t expect one.

The microwave clock says we’re already behind. We’re always behind. Time stretches when I don’t need it and sprints when I do. I grab my mug and head down the hall, stepping over the loose board by the bathroom that creaks no matter how careful I am. I knock gently on Alaska's door. It’s covered in stickers: stars, animals, a crooked firefighter badge sticker someone gave her at her dad’s memorial that I don’t have the heart to peel off.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say softly, opening it just enough to peek inside.

She’s already awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair a wild halo around her head, methodically lining up her stuffed animals by size. Bear. Bunny. Fox. Dinosaur. Every morning, same order. Same ritual.

Her eyes flick to me. Gray like her dad’s.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “Preschool day.”

She blinks once but doesn’t speak.

That’s been the rule since the fire.

I don’t push, I never push. I crouch instead, lowering myself to her level, careful not to disrupt the lineup. My knees pop quietly. I make a mental note—again—to stretch more, to stop pretending I’m twenty-two instead of almost thirty.

I say and sign good morning, clumsy but improving. Alaska watches my hands, then signs it back. I hold the sign a second longer than I need to, in case she wants to add anything to it.

She can talk and hear just fine. I know that. The doctors know that. The therapists keep telling me she’s processing, that silence doesn’t mean absence, that grief takes the time it takes.

But her preschool sent another note home yesterday. Highlighted with a passive aggressive smiling clip-art that said, Concerns about kindergarten readiness.

I scoop Alaska up from her bed before she can get off of it herself.

She doesn’t squeal or protest. She just curls into me automatically, her small body warm and heavy in that way only children manage—like trust that has weight. I carry her into the kitchen, settling her into the booster seat while I start her morning routine.

Cereal first, then banana slices, with juice watered down more than she’d prefer if she’d complain about it. I slide everything onto the table and sit across from her with my coffee, watching the way she lines up the banana pieces before eating them.

I try not to let my chest tighten. She’s been obsessed with precise order and everything having a certain place since her dad died.

Preschool drop-off is at eight-thirty. My first massage client is at ten. Somewhere between those two things, I have to convince myself I’m not failing spectacularly at this whole guardianship thing.

One year ago, my biggest concern was passing my licensing exam. Now I’m Googling “kindergarten readiness checklist” at two in the morning and wondering if silence due to trauma can be measured on a developmental chart.

“Time to get dressed,” I say, pointing.