Page 23 of Smoke Signals

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she can sense something is off, that maybe he won’t show up this week. Stellan always comes on Fridays. Fridays are supposed to be table time, letters, and her little satisfied huff when she gets something right. Fridays are supposed to be the one day I can breathe for an hour and let someone else hold the weight with me.

Last Friday ended with my fear speaking for me.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it; even though I already know there’s nothing there. I don’t know what I expect to see—a message from Stellan asking if I’m okay, or maybe one saying he’s done, that he won’t come back, that I made it clear enough.

There’s nothing.

My stomach twists anyway.

“You wanna bring your fox today?” I ask, pointing toward the living room where her stuffed animal sits on the couch.

Alaska shakes her head. Then she signs seven letters.

S-T-E-L-L-A-N

I swallow hard like that’s going to fix it. “Not today,” I tell her softly. “We’ll see him soon.”

The words come out before I’ve decided I mean them.

I pack her bag, check her lunch twice and forget where I put my keys, even though they’re in the bowl by the door like always. I move too fast, then too slow, then stand still in the middle of the apartment with my hands full of nothing, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do next.

Alaska watches me.

“I’m okay,” I tell her, and the lie tastes like burned coffee.

The drive to preschool takes longer because traffic is… Chicago traffic, and nobody here has ever felt patience in their life. Horns blare, a bus lurches into my lane, sirens echo somewhere in the distance and my shoulders lock up before I can stop them.

I glance at Alaska in the rearview mirror. She’s gripping the strap of her backpack, eyes fixed on the window, her body too still.

“I know,” I murmur. “It’s okay.”

I keep saying that, like if I repeat it enough the world will start agreeing.

At drop off, Ms. Rodriguez greets Alaska with her usual warm energy. Alaska hovers by my leg, fingers curled into the fabric of my pants.

“She’s been doing so well,” Ms. Rodriguez says, and her smile is genuine this time. “We’ve seen a lot of progress.”

I nod, because I can’t seem to do anything else lately. “Yeah. We’re still getting extra help. Last week she even said Da.”

Ms. Rodriguez tilts her head as her eyes widen. “The tutor you mentioned?”

I picture Stellan’s expression when Alaska said Da, the way his whole body went still. The way he didn’t rush her, didn’t steal the moment, didn’t try to make it his.

“Yeah,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I meant. “His name’s Stellan.”

“How’s it going?”

I open my mouth to answer, and nothing coherent comes out. How do I explain that the tutoring is going great, that my niece is opening up, that I feel like we’re finally building something safe, and also I am apparently capable of ruining it all with two seconds of panic.

“It’s going,” I manage.

Alaska taps my hand once, quick and firm, then turns and walks into the classroom. She doesn’t look back.

That shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

I sit in my car for a minute after, hands on the steering wheel, my phone sits in the cup holder, and stare at it but don’t pick it up.

Eventually, traffic forces a decision. Someone honks behind me, impatient and loud, and I pull away from the curb like I’ve been shoved back into motion. The city swallows me up fast. Red lights. Buses groaning at corners. A pedestrian darting across the street like he’s late for something important.