“Should I stop him?”
“I don’t think anything could,” she said softly. “He’s been at that machine since he could reach the pedal. You know that.”
I did know. I had watched his mother hem my curtains while six-year-old Eli handed her pins from a magnetic bowl and asked why thread had a number. By ten, he was drawing dresses in the margins of spelling homework. By thirteen, he was altering his own jackets on her old Singer.
I hung up and pressed my forehead to the cool window.
Two weeks felt impossible. Two weeks felt like a countdown to one more disappointment I would have to absorb on my daughter’s behalf.
Meanwhile, Hazel kept sinking.
She stopped coming downstairs for breakfast. She wore the same gray hoodie for three days straight. When I knocked, she answered with single syllables.
I tried to keep her tied to me with small lies.
“I’m just running errands,” I would say, when I was really buying ivory silk thread from a craft store because Eli had texted me a list.
On the fourth day, I went into her room to switch her laundry and found a notebook beneath the bed. Not the freshman-year one I had peeked through months earlier behind the paperbacks. A newer one. Sophomore year, written in her tighter, angrier hand.
Names. Pages of them.
Girls who whispered when she passed. Boys who posted things the week after Mason’s funeral. Comments she had screenshotted, printed, and tucked between the pages like pressed flowers turned black.
I sat on her carpet and read every page.
That was the real enemy. Not a saleswoman. Not a window display.
It was a chorus my daughter had been carrying under her ribs for two years.
I picked up my phone and photographed the pages one by one. Then I sent them to Eli. I don’t know if any of this helps you, I typed. I just thought you should see what she’s been carrying.
The three dots appeared, then disappeared, for a long time. I sat on her carpet watching them, wondering what he could possibly do with a list of cruelties less than two weeks before prom. Burn them, maybe. Read them and mourn. I had not sent them with a plan. I sent them because I could not carry them alone.
When his reply finally arrived, it was only one sentence. Some of these I already knew. Thank you for the rest.
Then, one minute later: I know what to do with them.
