Page 67 of The Forbidden Center

The sentence arrives without drama. That makes it worse.

Her English is better than mine was at twelve and better than mine was when we landed. She hears jokes before I do. She has learned which words teachers prefer and which ones other children punish for sounding different.

I have been so proud of how fast she adapted that I never asked what the adapting cost.

“You want to be understood without having to work for it.”

“I just don’t want to have to think about it.”

“Yes.”

She looks toward the table where the floor plan is still open.

“You want the house.”

“I do.”

“You want to stay here.”

I look at the piano, at the rented wall behind it, at the dent in the baseboard from the day we moved it in.

“I want to stay.”

There it is.

I want a front step I chose. I want a room where my daughter is allowed to make the desk an offensive shade of green and complain about the cupboard. I want to find out what happens after temporary stops being the organizing principle of my life.

Tova puts both hands around one knee.

“Then what do we do?”

“I think.”

“That takes forever.”

“Sometimes.”

“You’re allowed to say no.”

“I could.”

She waits.

“I am not ready to.”

That answer is not enough for either of us.

It is still the honest one.

She leaves the rug, circles the piano, and claims the far end of the bench, leaving a handspan between us.

I put my hands back on the keys.

After two measures her knee comes against mine.

She hums the difficult run under her breath.

I slow down until we reach it together.