Juliet was quiet for a while, fingers twisting the bunny's ear.
"She said Mommy didn't want me," her voice went small. "That I'm a kid nobody wants... unless I call her Mommy. Otherwise, she'll make Daddy not want me either..."
I knelt there, knees going weak. My heart felt like someone had grabbed it and was squeezing. Poor child. Instinctively, I pulled her into my arms, gently stroking her back. "My Juliet, you're a good girl. Daddy won't stop wanting you. I'm sure your mommy loves you, too. She must have her reasons. You're the sweetest child. Everyone will love you."
"Thank you, Miss Vivi. You're so nice. I don't like that lady," Juliet sniffled, eyes red, rubbing her little head against me. "When she talks, she smells really strong and bad. Not like you, Vivi. You smell nice."
"Juliet," my voice came out hoarse, "did you tell your dad what she said to you?"
She shook her head. "Daddy's busy. I don't want to worry him."
I reached out and pulled her into my arms. She leaned in, rested her head on my shoulder, the stuffed bunny squished between us, its ear dangling and swaying.
"You should tell him," I said. "He'd want to know."
She didn't speak, just buried her face in the crook of my shoulder and made a muffled sound of agreement.
I held her. That sore spot in my chest turned into pain. Not sharp pain—low, lingering pain, like a thorn stuck in and never pulled out, just left there.
If Juliet was my daughter—
No. I couldn't think like that. I didn't know anything yet. I couldn't put baseless hope on this child.
I let her go, stood up, pretended to organize my teaching bag, shoved that Giselle postcard to the very bottom, and zipped it closed.
"All right, Juliet, my brave girl. That's it for today."
"Vivi," Juliet looked up at me, "will you come back tomorrow?"
"Yes," I said. "Same time."
She smiled, showing the little gap between her front teeth.
After the lesson ended, I didn't leave right away.
"Carmen," I said, "could I use the restroom?"
"Of course. End of the hall, turn left."
I walked in the direction she pointed. The restroom was at the end of the hall, door closed. I pushed—it wouldn't budge. Tried the handle—locked.
I stepped back, about to leave. Then I turned and bumped into someone.
A tray brushed past my arm. Juice spilled out, cold liquid running down my sleeve, spreading across my white shirt in a large orange stain.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" The young maid apologized frantically. "Miss Adrian, I didn't mean to! I didn't think you'd be—"
"It's fine," I said. "My fault. I shouldn't have been standing there."
The juice had soaked through half my sleeve, sticky against my skin. Uncomfortable. The maid looked ready to cry, said she'd get a towel. I told her not to worry and asked where the nearest restroom was. She pointed to another door at the end of the hall, said the guest room bathroom was available, and she'd find me a clean shirt.
I walked into that guest room, closed the door, turned on the faucet, pulled off my shirt, and used a wet towel to wipe the juice offmy arms. The orange liquid diluted in the white sink, swirling down the drain.
The water covered up sounds from outside. I focused on cleaning the shirt, standing at the sink, trying to steady my breathing.
Then my eyes fell on the countertop.
A few items sat there, casually placed, like the owner had used them last night or this morning and set them down without thinking. A pair of cufflinks—silver, square, with a thin beveled edge. A bottle of cologne in dark glass, no fancy decoration, a metal cap, simple and solid.
