That Friday, there was nothing.
The television was off.
The kitchen was clean in the wrong way, as though nobody had used it or somebody had cleaned too quickly.
The air conditioner hummed through the vents, and somewhere near the sink I could smell fruit punch under a layer of lemon cleaner.
Then I saw Ella sitting outside her bedroom door.
She wore a navy sweatshirt even though September heat still pressed against the windows.
Her blond hair was tangled along one side, and she held the stuffed rabbit she had slept with since preschool.
The rabbit had once been white.
Years of hugs had turned it gray, and one ear leaned permanently sideways from when Ella used to chew it while falling asleep.
She had outgrown princess sheets and plastic tea sets, but she had never stopped reaching for that rabbit when she was frightened.
That evening, she was squeezing it so hard that the tips of her fingers had gone pale.
I set my suitcase beside the wall.
“Hey, peanut,” I said. “What happened?”
Ella looked toward the stairs before she looked at me.
It was a small movement, but it changed the room.
Children glance toward the place they expect help to come from.
Ella glanced toward the place she expected danger to hear her.
“Dad, my back really hurts,” she whispered.
I knelt in front of her.
Read more by clicking the (NEXT »») button below!
