“Where’s your dad?”
“He fell asleep. He said he wasn’t feeling good. But he drank those.” She points at the kitchen counter, where five cans of Bud Light sit empty.
I check my phone. 8:23.Shit.
“Have you had any dinner, honey?”
She shakes her head no.
“Well, let’s start with that.”
“I was just going to make myself a bowl of cereal. I don’t need any help. I can reach it myself and eat it by the TV.”
Dinner alone in front of the television. Sounds familiar.“Cereal’s good,” I agree. “But what’s your favorite food?”
Brett looks at the ceiling, thinking. “I don’t know. Pizza, I guess.”
“Really? That’s my favorite too. How about this? I haven’t eaten yet. Why don’t I order us a pizza, and we’ll get you washed up and into your pajamas. Would you like that?”
Brett shrugs again, offering a half smile. “I guess,” she mumbles.
I check my phone to find a nearby pizza place through Uber Eats. I order a large pie—half plain, half with extra mushrooms—Matt’s favorite, I remember, and evidently Brett’s favorite too. I follow Brettinto her lilac-colored bedroom and help her choose a fresh pair of flannel pajamas. Then, I bring the child into the bathroom and sit on the closed toilet seat, keeping her company while she washes her face. Without her pink glasses on, I notice the freckles on Brett’s nose and a dimple in her left cheek that’s identical to the one I used to admire on Matt. I also notice her fingernails, which are bitten down to the quick. I hand Brett a towel from a hook on the wall. After she dries off, I wander down the hallway back to the kitchen. I can’t help but notice the lack of family photos on the walls.
Brett sits in a chair at the round kitchen table. The sink is filled with dirty dishes. A light bulb is out over the fridge. I make small talk while fumbling through cabinets and drawers in search of napkins, plates, a pizza cutter, and cups.
“So, what grade are you in?” I ask, setting the items on the table.
“First,” Brett replies.
“I loved first grade,” I reply. “We had a class hamster. Does your class have a pet?”
The girl shakes her head no.
“Bummer. Do you have a favorite animal?” I begin washing the dishes in the sink.
This elicits a shrug. “Bunnies, I guess,” she says, holding up the ratty stuffed bunny she carries around. “His name’s Velveteen.” I notice the way Brett compulsively rubs the rabbit’s long ear between her thumb and forefinger, like she’s desperately seeking comfort.
“Do you know that was one of my very favorite books growing up?” I reply.
“Really?” Brett asks. “I hated it.”
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “Then why do you have the bunny from the story as your stuffed animal?”
“To save it,” she explains.
I turn to look at her quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
“At the end of the book, they try to kill the bunny in the fire because the boy is sick. You don’t do that. If the boy loved it, he should have fought harder to save the bunny.”
“Ah.” I nod, remembering the story. “I forgot that part.”
“I’m going to save my daddy,” Brett says.
“He’s okay, now, though. Right?” I ask.
“No. He’s not himself anymore.”
I’m careful to be gentle with my questions. “How’s that?”
