Page 49 of Never Forget
I nodded and climbed out of the truck.
The classroom smelled like finger paint and graham crackers. Rosie's teacher spotted me in the doorway and walked over with that sympathetic look I'd gotten used to receiving.
"She's doing well," Mrs. Hartley said quietly. "A little quieter than usual, but she's adjusting. Kids are resilient."
"Thank you for keeping an eye on her."
"Of course." She squeezed my arm. "She's a sweet girl."
Then Rosie saw me.
Her whole face lit up, and she abandoned the block tower she'd been building to run across the room. "Auntie Jamie!"
I crouched down and caught her in a hug, breathing in the smell of her hair, the solidness of her small body against mine.
"Hey, sweetheart. Did you have a good day?"
She launched into a breathless account of everything that had happened since I'd dropped her off that morning. A boy named Chase had stolen her crayon but then gave it back. They had goldfish crackers at snack time. She made a picture for me.
I listened and nodded in all the right places, but my eyes drifted around the room. The cubby with Rosie's name written in bright letters. The artwork taped to the walls. The other kids packing up their backpacks, the other parents signing them out. This was a world Rosie belonged to.
She had a routine here. Teachers who knew her name. Friends who fought with her over crayons and then made up before snack time. This was her life, the only life she'd ever known.
Could Rosie adjust in New York?
The question sat heavy in my chest. I didn't have an answer. But asking it changed something.
"Ready to go home?" I asked.
Rosie nodded and slipped her hand into mine. We walked back to Sam's truck together.
I asked Sam to stay for dinner.
We made spaghetti because Rosie requested it. Sam boiled the noodles while I heated the sauce and Rosie supervised from her perch on a kitchen stool, offering commentary on everything we did wrong.
"You're stirring too fast," she informed Sam.
"Am I?" He slowed down to an exaggerated crawl. "How's this?"
"Too slow."
"You're a tough critic, Rosie Donovan."
She giggled and kicked her feet against the stool legs. Sam handed her a carrot stick to keep her busy, and she accepted it with the gravity of someone being given an important task.
I watched them from across the kitchen. Sam was patient with her in a way that seemed effortless. He got down to her level when he talked to her. He listened to her rambling stories like they mattered. He didn't talk over her or rush her along.
Loretta's question surfaced in my mind, unbidden:Would Mark be a good father to Rosie?
I pushed it away and turned back to the sauce.
After dinner, Rosie insisted on showing Sam the picture she'd made at school. It was a dog with enormous floppy ears and a tongue hanging out of its mouth.
"That's a dog," she said, in case there was any confusion.
"I can see that." Sam crouched down to examine it seriously. "What's his name?"
"Biscuit."
