Page 25 of Smoke Signals

I crouch and wrap my arms around her, breathing in the smell of crayons, baby shampoo, and the faint sweetness of her snack on her breath.

“You okay?” I ask, voice soft.

She doesn’t nod. She presses her forehead against my shoulder and clings.

Ms. Rodriguez steps closer, hands clasped. “She had a harder day.”

My stomach drops.

“What happened?” I ask, and my voice comes out too sharp.

Ms. Rodriguez doesn’t flinch, just keeps her tone calm. “Nothing major. She participated, she followed directions. She just seemed more withdrawn. She signed for something a few times, but we couldn’t quite understand it.”

Alaska pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes serious.

Her hands move.

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

Again.

Then she points vaguely, not at the classroom, not at the hall, but toward the car. I’m sure she’s anxious for Friday and the idea of a man who sits at our table and doesn’t rush her.

“You miss him?” I whisper.

Alaska nods once.

I close my eyes for a second because I can’t afford to fall apart in a preschool hallway, but the ache is sharp. I did this. My fear did this. I took something steady, something good, and I put my hands on it and squeezed until it cracked. She didn’t even witness our moment, but somehow she can feel it, sense it. Fuck.

On the drive home Alaska is quiet, watching the city blur past.

“Hey,” I say softly. “I love you.”

She signs back without looking at me.

Love you.

At home, dinner is a mess because I burn the garlic bread and Alaska refuses spaghetti, and then I get irritated about the spaghetti even though it’s not about spaghetti at all. I raise my voice too quickly. Not yelling, but sharp enough that Alaska freezes and her eyes get wide.

My heart drops through my stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, crouching beside her chair. “I’m sorry, baby. That wasn’t about you.”

Alaska doesn’t move. She keeps her hands in her lap, fingers clenched tight.

I reach out slowly, and give her time to pull away if she wants. When she doesn’t, I rest my hand over her small fist and wait.

My voice comes out quiet. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She stares at me for awhile then she relaxes a fraction, her fingers loosening under mine.

We eat something else; peanut butter toast and banana slices, because it’s safe and familiar and doesn’t require any effort or thought.

Bath time goes smoother. Alaska lines her dinosaurs on the edge of the tub, then taps each one with her finger. I wash her hair gently, careful with the water, careful with everything.

When she’s in pajamas and tucked into bed, she signs love you before she turns onto her side, facing me full on.

I swallow hard. “I love you too,” I promise her. “Goodnight.”