If You're Out There(34)

“Yes,” he says immediately. He shrugs, sheepish. “I’m saving for a car.”

“Okay, cool,” I say. “I’ll mention it to him.”

Bee comes scampering back down the hall with a brush in hand and a towel over one shoulder. She runs the bristles through her hair at odd angles, making slow, modest improvements to the pile atop her head.

“Your hair is a bit messy too, Zan,” she says when she’s finished, her first full sentence of the evening. “Would you like me to fix it for you?”

Logan catches my eye and I turn to her. “That would be delightful.” The bar stool is too tall for her, so we move to the living room floor.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” she says expertly. I can feel her childlike concentration as she runs the thick brush along my scalp. Despite the occasional yank, it actually feels quite nice. “I like your hair,” she says, turning to face me as she brushes the front pieces from my eyes. For a moment we’re just inches apart. “It’s pretty.” Her smile reveals a missing bottom tooth.

In the kitchen, Logan removes the lid from a pot of boiling water. “Hey, kiddo. Elbows or bow ties?”

“Bow ties,” she says decisively, and Logan rummages through the upper cabinets as the landline begins to ring. “I’ll get it!” says Bee, dropping the brush. She sprints to the old-fashioned rotary phone mounted to the wall and stands on tippy toes to reach. She takes in a big gulp of air. “Good evening Hart residence Brittany speaking.”

I turn to Logan, charmed, and he explains with a whisper, “Our aunt taught her that.” He takes the skillet off the burner and moves it to the oven.

Bee listens a moment, her face lighting up. “Oh hi, Mommy.”

The oven door slams shut. “Brittany, give me the phone.” She ignores him, still listening along. “Give it,” he says. But she doesn’t move.

Logan charges over to pull the receiver from her hands, and in a flash, she’s running down the hall with tears in her eyes. He pauses before lifting the phone to his ear. “You know you can’t call like this”—his voice has completely changed—“Mom.” I wonder if I should see myself out. Then I remember the satiny pajamas I’m wearing and my own clothes bouncing in the dryer.

I point in the direction Bee ran and mouth the words Should I . . . ? He nods, appreciative. His voice seems to soften as I creep down the hall. “Mom, come on. Don’t cry.” I feel bad for being curious, so I make myself walk faster, until I’m out of earshot. I can tell he doesn’t want me hearing any more.

I find Bee sitting on the carpet in her room, staring blankly at a tattered, purple-clad doll with bright pink hair. The doll’s clothes suggest a hard life of turning tricks, her oversize head a vague advertisement for bulimia. “Who’s she?” I ask from the doorway.

“Gwendolyn,” says Bee. “My mommy gave it to me.”

The bedroom window is cracked, letting in the swirling sounds of wind and rain. “Gwendolyn, huh?” I say, stepping into the room. The bed is crisply made, with fluffy pink pillows, a canopy overhead, and a big stuffed bear in one corner. Shelves of kids’ books take up an entire wall. Bee’s eyes are red and puffy. She wipes them as I sink down onto the carpet beside her. “That’s a good name. Is she a princess?”

“No,” she says, somewhat scandalized. “She’s a senator.”

I have to stifle a smile to match her serious expression. “Wow.” I peer down at the doll with newfound respect, my mind drifting to Priya. She would frickin’ love this kid. “Good for you, Gwendolyn.”

Bee pulls a tiny silver outfit from a box at the foot of her bed and begins stripping Gwen down to her emaciated figure. “Logan doesn’t like princess games,” she offers up after a moment.

I keep my eyes on Gwendolyn. “Oh? And why is that?”

Bee slips the crotch-length dress up the little lady’s torso and fastens it closed at the back. “He says princesses don’t get to do anything cool. They just like . . . put on lipstick and wait for boys to marry them and stuff.” She wipes her eyes with a strong little sniff. “He says he’ll be very, very sad if that’s all I want when I grow up.”

I feel a pang of warmth for Logan and have to fight the urge to extract more information from this innocent little person.

For a split second, I feel like I’m not quite myself, because I have the strongest urge to call up Priya and tell her about a boy. The thought makes me feel queasy and sad, giddy and deflated. It’s too many feelings all at once. “So Gwendolyn is a senator,” I say, shaking it off.

“Yes,” says Bee, pulling the pink hair into a ponytail. “A very pretty senator.”

Down the hall, the front door opens, followed by huffing and puffing. “It’s like a monsoon out there!” calls a woman’s voice. The heavy door slams and moments later a head pops into the doorway. “Hey, Honey Bee . . . Oh.” Logan’s aunt, who I now remember I once observed from behind a trash can, regards me curiously. “Hello.”

“This is Logan’s friend Zan,” says Bee as I stand. “She’s wearing your pajamas.”

The woman laughs, her deep-set eyes lifted by rosy cheeks as she reaches out to take my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Zan. I’m Bonnie.” She removes a trench coat and shakes out her short, brown hair. “You’re welcome to my pj’s anytime.”