She stands in the doorway, cold and too thin, hugging herself, and looks up at me expectantly. This is how I know that she wants far more than to see my wallet safely returned to me. I put my wallet in my pocket - I'll look through it later - and stand aside to permit her entry. She comes in after a moment of hesitation but hangs near the door, as though she requires further instructions.
In this moment, I understand that things are very much more wrong in Hazel's life than she has seen fit to advertise. What I do not understand is why this has become my problem.
"How did you get here?" I say. I close the door behind her and lock it.
I am miles from the BART station, and it has been hours since the last train. "And the bus after that?"
She looks uncomfortable, and searches the apartment for something to rest her eyes on that is not me. "No. I walked."
Just to return my wallet? I want to say, but I already know the answer. I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Hazel follows, and I clear off a spot for her at the table. When she sits I can see that her mind is miles away, and I leave her to her thoughts so I can be left to mine.
Obviously she wants something, and it's obviously up to me to figure out what, because she's not telling. I am not especially happy to have this child in my home. I don't know her well, and I don't trust her. I look at her in the dim blue glow of the television. She's wearing a sweatshirt that hangs off her like cloth draped over a wire, and I think I might cut myself if I touch her. There is a skeletal quality to her face I can see in the deep shadows of the flickering light that I had not noticed earlier today. She's also barefoot.
"There is no aunt, is there?" I say. She glances up at me and her expression seems to indicate an expectation of violence. I lean back against the kitchen counter and look at the television, where the ball has dropped on Times Square and incomprehensibly, the party is still going on.
I turn and pull the refrigerator door open, and look through it. I'm down to condiments and the results of an ill-advised culinary experiment that took so many hours I can't bear to throw it out, and I don't know the girl well enough to know if she would appreciate a guacamole sandwich or not. I find some Kraft cheese buried in the back and while the water boils, I spread mayonnaise on two slices of bread and lay the thin, plastic cheese slices on top. As sandwiches go, it's pretty basic, but when I set the plate in front of her, and bring the coffee to the table, it meets with no complaint. She picks up half the sandwich and without a word, she begins to eat.
I have never
considered myself a paternal man. The decision I make now comes not
from any tenderness toward this child, but a desire not to leave a
project half-finished. I've committed myself by feeding her, and she
still needs, presumably, a shower and a few hours of sleep.
"Do
you have anywhere to spend the night?" I expect her to shake her
head, but she pauses first and looks at me, as if to ask that it's
okay that she confirms this. She seems deeply afraid of me in a way
that she wasn't this morning. "It's just a question, kid," I
say. "Are you still hungry?" She nods, and while I make her a
second sandwich I listen to the festivities winding down on the
television, at such odds with the events taking place in the dark of
my kitchen. Despite myself, my curiosity is piqued. She is a puzzle
whose rules are not quite clear in my head, and it might be
interesting to take the weekend to figure her out.
*****
Down the hall, a crack under the bathroom door spills soft yellow light onto the wall opposite. She is using so much hot water the pipes groan. She came with nothing but whatever is in her pockets, and I think she might want some clean clothes, so I go and find a shirt that might fit her, or at least won't drape over her like a tent. I don't think any of my pants will, but I bring her a pair of flannel pajama bottoms anyway, and place everything just outside the bathroom door. She is moving around in there, but when I knock she goes quiet. "I put some clothes outside for you," I say, and go to outfit the couch with a blanket and pillow. After a little while she starts moving around again.
I am sitting in the chair watching late night television without really watching it. She hasn't found my hair dryer, but she's brushed and combed her hair, and it hangs heavy and limp from her head, strands clinging to her neck. She sees me and doesn't know what to say, but as far as I'm concerned, there's little to be said, except this:
"Is anyone looking for you?" I need to know because I've heard the horror stories and don't want to wind up in jail for kidnapping or aiding and abetting a runaway, or worse. This would be the icing on the divorce settlement, but I think about it a moment and figure if I really thought it was that big a risk, I wouldn't have let her in in the first place.
"No," she says. It's the first thing she's said since she walked in the door.
"Are you okay?"
No quick confirmation. Hazel tilts her head as though she's conceding that she's kind of not, but doesn't follow through with an answer, though I wait for one.
"Do you want to talk about it?" But I know she won't. "You can sleep there," I say, gesturing to the couch. She looks better, from what I can see; at the very least she's clean and warm and has some food in her stomach, and I'm feeling a little like I've rescued her. "I'll make us breakfast in the morning," I say, to encourage her, like a stray cat, to stick around, at least until I can interrogate her.
I get up to leave the room, and then I remember, and stop. She's scooted halfway under the covers already, like she can't wait to go to bed. "The book," I say. "Did you finish it?"
Hazel looks horrified and guilty. "I lost it. I'm sorry."
"But did you finish it?"
"...Yeah."
"Did you like it?"
She nods.
"Good." I turn and go into my room and close the door behind me.
