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Wrong kind of home. I don’t correct her as I hold the back door open for her. She crawls in and tosses her backpack on the seat.
“Why can’t I sit in the front?”
“Same rules apply regardless of where we are.”
“Dumb.”
So is living here, but I don’t say that to her.
“I hired a caretaker,” I tell her as soon as I’m behind the steering wheel. “I think you’re going to like her.”
“Why can’t you stay with me?”
Because you want to stay with your mother.
“I can, in Beaumont, Amelie. That’s where my job is.”
“Tashia’s dad is a doctor, and he works here.”
“I’m sure lots of your classmates have parents in the medical field.”
“Her mom is in the government. I think she’s a spy.”
I fight hard not to roll my eyes. Amelie sees one show about an American spy working for the government and now everyone is. Including the President and First Lady.
“You probably shouldn’t say that out loud to anyone,” I tell her as we turn to head home. “Some people take that word very seriously and it could cause them a lot of trouble. You remember in the movie what happened, right?”
“Yeah, they kidnapped her family.”
“Right, you wouldn’t want Tashia kidnapped, would you?”
“No, that would be scary, and I’d be sad.”
“Let’s try and keep our government conspiracies to the house, okay?”
“Okay.”
We pull into the driveway just as Aubrey’s being dropped off after being gone for two days. She looks haggard and doesn’t wait for Amelie or me to get out of the car. I try not to let that bother me, but it does. I get not waiting for me, but to not wait for her daughter? I don’t care how exhausted she is, Amelie should come first.
Except deep down, I know she doesn’t.
Amelie and I get out of the car and head into the house. I can faintly hear the water running in the bathroom and figure Aubrey’s taking a shower. After getting Amelie set up at the table to do her homework, I make my way down the hall and knock on the bathroom door.
“You okay?”
“Not really,” she says loud enough for me to hear.
“Can I come in?” I expect her to yell or bite my head off for being intrusive, but she says yes. Opening the door slowly, mostly out of fear she might throw something at me, I peek my head around the door and find her sitting against the tub, which is filling with water.
I step inside and sit opposite her. We know from experience this job is hard, and after a few weeks of it, the evidence is written all over Aubrey’s face.
“Wanna talk about it?”
She shakes her head slowly and wipes away tears from her dirt-stained face. “She was ten. The same age as our daughter. Gang raped and held until she went into labor. They dumped her in the village last night. We did everything we could.”
“I’m sorry, Aubrey.”
“She was just a baby,” Aubrey cries out. “She kept asking for her momma, but we didn’t know where she was from so no one could find her. I held her so she wouldn’t be alone and told her that where she’s going, no one would hurt her again.”
