Page 45

"And ask her about Thanksgiving."

"Faith."

"I'm only saying." She flips the pillow over, pulls the flashlight out from under it, and turns it on and off twice, as if punctuating. "Go."

I kiss her forehead. It's warm, and smells of soap and crayon.

At the door I stop and look back at her. Small in her yellow room, with the owl poster behind her and a tiny light blinking on and off in her fist. I think that I have spent five years protecting this child from every person in the world who might break her heart, and not once in all that time have I asked what she thought she deserved.

My truck is at the station, so I take the keys to my mother's sedan from her purse, next to the toothbrush.

The car smells of peppermints and old paper. I drive up the hill in the dark.

The orchard is black on both sides of the road. The trees press close, their branches silver in my headlights. The lane takes me up and around through the rows to the top, where the farmhouse sits with every window lit.

The porch lantern is on. She's replaced the bulb.

I stop at the bottom of the lane, below the barn, with the engine running. I look at the yellow glow across the steps and the swept boards. I realize I'm gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

I sit there for two minutes. I've talked a man down off a roof with a shotgun, and I couldn't tell you what I plan to say. The speech I rehearsed all the way up the hill is gone.

I turn off the engine. I get out. The night air is cold, and sharp with the smell of fallen apples. I walk up the lane and across the gravel with my hands at my sides.

The front door opens before I reach the steps.

Carolina stands in the doorway with the hall light behind her. She's still in the green sweater, with her hair down on her shoulders. She's holding Nell's cast-iron skillet in one hand, upright, at about the level of her ribs.

"Is that necessary?" I say.

"It's mine."

"I know it's yours."

"You parked at the bottom of the lane and sat there with the engine running for two minutes. I counted. I picked up the skillet at one."

"I was working up to it."

"I know. I could see your headlights sitting there, not moving." Her chin lifts. "You can come up, if you're going to say something."

I climb the steps. The new bulb in the lantern throws a warm circle on the boards. I stop at the top, a few feet from her. I look at her face. It's perfectly calm and perfectly polite. Her eyes are red around the rims.

"You changed the bulb."

"I stood on a kitchen chair."

"You shouldn't stand on a kitchen chair."

"I'm a professional."

"I'm going to stop letting you say that."

The corner of her mouth moves. She doesn't let it go any further, but I see it. Something in my chest gives a little.

I take a breath. "I came with a speech."

"Good."

"It's gone."