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“I think she’s a witch.” She put the red pencil down then searched the table for the pink crayon. When she found it, she pressed it to the paper and filled in her lines.
I halted my coloring and stared at her. “A witch?”
“Because she can do magic.”
“Claire, what do you mean by that?” My voice deepened with a hint of panic, immediately thinking about that horrible place that held her captive for months. She’d never spoken of things like this before.
“She makes bad things go away. She made the monsters disappear. I’m never sad around her…she makes that go away.”
I stared at my precious daughter, watched her color like she hadn’t just said something concerning. “Are you sad, sweetheart?” It was so hard to ask the question, to keep my broken heart in my throat.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
She kept coloring, her eyes down. “Is Mommy coming back?”
My eyes instinctively closed because the moment had arrived. Claire didn’t get her weekends with her mother anymore, and she noticed. She was smart enough to know something was different…everything was different.
I was left with this burden.
This terrible fucking burden.
Like every father who ever existed, I asked myself the question.
Should I lie?
A lie would only buy me time. She was too smart for that. “No.”
Claire’s hand moved slower as she colored the page, her sadness visible.
Just fucking kill me.
She asked the question that I didn’t want her to ask. “Why?” This time, she looked up and met my look. The same blue eyes stared back at me, but hers were filled with goodness and innocence.
I didn’t have an answer. “She needs to focus on herself for a while…”
“Did I do something—”
“No.” This time, my voice choked. Couldn’t stand the question. Couldn’t even let her finish it. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Don’t think that—not even for a second. And you always have me.”
Her fingers grasped her pencil, the tip pressed to the last place where she’d colored. “In the forest…it didn’t seem like she wanted me around…but Constance always wanted me around.”
I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing at all.
“Constance makes it better…she makes everything better.”
I cooked dinner, and Constance did the dishes afterward.
I gave Claire a bath, tucked her in for the night, and sat at her bedside until she fell asleep, surrounded by all her stuffed animals. She had more than horses. There were bears, a hippo, and a tiger.
The curtains were drawn closed and the bedroom was dark, but I could still see her face clearly, see how peaceful she looked when she was tucked into a warm bed with her stuffed bear against her chest.
I didn’t understand how Beatrice could leave.
I would never understand it.
When I returned to the dining room, Constance had finished loading the dishwasher. She closed the door, turned it on, and then the quiet hum started. She washed her hands, patted them dry, and then rubbed the back of her neck like there was a kink.
I watched her movements, watched her fingers brush her long hair away so she could touch her soft skin. She closed her eyes and rolled her head back, like she’d found the spot she’d been looking for.
My eyes noted every feature she possessed, her long and slender fingers, the fair skin that looked like freshly fallen snow, the color of her nude nails, the nails that had dug into my back days ago. She was still in her jeans and boots, in a gray blouse that fit over her small breasts to highlight their perkiness.
She used to be a warm body in a cold bed.
But now, I looked at her differently.
Couldn’t explain it.
She looked at the painting that hung above the sink for a moment before she turned away. When she saw me, she stilled, clearly having no idea I was there. Or how long I’d been there. The unease quickly disappeared, a deep breath entering her lungs then cleansing her stress on the way out.
It was the exact same reaction she gave every time I came home, every time I stepped into the room.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t lust.
It was comfort.
Her boots hit the tile as she approached me. “I have to agree with Claire. You’re definitely the superior cook.” Her hand went to the surface of the nearby counter, and she looked up at me, giving me a slight smile.
I ignored the words like they were never spoken.
Her smile slowly began to fade, but her eyes kept their contact. She used to look away when my stare was too much, too long, too intense. She didn’t do that anymore. She could hold my gaze forever.
“Thank you for making my daughter happy.”
Her eyes slowly tightened with emotion, her lips pressed together a little harder, and the breath she drew was labored with a pain that wasn’t physical. My words hit her right in the heart, and her reaction showed that. “I love her so much…”
