Eleven
Sandy’s not mad at Dad. Tony’s already doing a good job being mad enough for the both of them, and being mad makes her feel yucky. Sandy feels yucky enough already; her stitches itch and pull weird at her skin. Besides, it really isn’t Dad’s fault that she fell and hit her head.
(They don’t know any other way to share their power with the child, but they hate the way they’re hurting her.
It has never been their intention to hurt her.)
So Sandy comes home from the hospital and Tony sends Dad looks like he wants to set him on fire until he has to go back to school. Mom fusses over her, which Sandy doesn’t like because Mom is always trying to hug her. Dad disappears, like a magic trick or a Snap, and the only evidence Sandy gets of his existence is the smell of coffee in the morning and light underneath his office door. She misses him, even though he yells a lot. Tony will miss him too, one day, if Sandy isn’t good enough.
(They wonder if it’s cruel of them, to show the child what stands to be lost.
They wonder if they can afford to care.
They wonder if they can afford not to.)
Sandy draws pictures for Dad. A hero in red, white, and blue. A man of iron. A future she hopes he’ll get to see. She makes envelopes with construction paper and tape, and slides them under his door. The door hasn’t opened yet, but one day she’ll see crayon drawings in expensive frames, so she figures that’s okay.
(“Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.”
They wonder if this is cruelty or compassion; they decide it's a bit of both.)