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“When are you coming to get us?”
Her daughter’s eyes slanted to the side. She was sure her father-in-law was just off screen, scowling as he overheard the little girl ask the question.
“The second I get out of the hospital, I’m coming to get you. I promise. I’m working really hard to get better.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
“How have you guys been doing? You feeling okay?”
“Yes! We have a babysitter. She’s real nice. Her hair issolong.”
“You like her?”
“Yeah. She plays family. And we made cookies. She has Legos!”
“That’s wonderful, guys. Have you had good behavior for Grampy?”
The children looked at each other.
“We’re trying,” her daughter said, then whispered close to the screen. “But it’s hard to be quiet enough.”
I bet. I bet that man wants you quiet. Wants you invisible.
“Okay. You keep working hard to have good behavior. I know it can be difficult. Have you been doing remote school?”
“Mm-hmm,” her daughter said. “The babysitter dialed us in this morning. And now it’s break!” She paused before adding, “They say he isn’t real?”
“Who?”
“Grampy, the policemen.”
“They say who isn’t real?”
“The Corner.”
“Grampy says the monster’s a pigment,” her son said. He was pulling silly faces, and from the angle of his eyes, she could tell the little boy was looking at his own image in the corner of the screen, making faces to entertain himself.
“Afigment,” his sister corrected him. “Afigmentof imagination.”
“Oh, loves, do you remember? We talked about this. There was no ghost, no nightmare man. No monster. Grampy’s right. It was just a person.”
“He’s a pigment,” her son insisted. “Grampy says so.” Then he leaned closer, said conspiratorially, “But he might be a ghost, Mama, ’cause the police say he doesn’t even have feet!”
Her eye felt so swollen it might burst through the bandage, and she wondered if her injuries or the usual difficulties of trying to get the children to focus, to communicate well over the phone, were at the root of how hard it was for her to understand what they were trying to say.
“Sorry, love, why are you talking about feet?”
Her little girl was looking away from the screen now, and she was certain her father-in-law was doing something to draw her daughter’s attention. The girl’s visible nervousness was contagious, and she stammered out, “You know what…never mind. Don’t worry about that. There was no Corner, okay? Just a man, talking in a scary voice.”
“There’s a lady who wants to know all about us.” Her son was back to distractedly making faces, looking at his own image on the phone.
“The babysitter?”
“No, a brown lady. She gave me butterscotch!”
“She gave usbothbutterscotch,” her daughter said.
Maybe her father-in-law was dating someone. Someone curious about her. But…dating a brown lady? It would be a cold day in hell for that man. A policewoman asking questions, maybe? The caseworker the sergeant had mentioned?
