She pulled out Mr. Rab.
He had been cleaned. Professionally cleaned. The stain was gone. The smell of mildew and stale beer was replaced by a sterile, soapy scent. He had been stitched up—neat, tight, surgical stitches that were far better than my clumsy attempts. He looked a little thinner without the plastic bags inside, a little deflated, like an old man who had lost weight.
But he was safe.
“Did you tell anyone?” I asked Alvarez.
“No,” she said. “Just the DA. It’s buried in the file. Nobody needs to know she was sleeping on a felony.”
I took him inside. Emily was coloring at the kitchen table. When she saw the grey, one-eyed rabbit, she dropped her crayon. It rolled off the table, hitting the floor with a small click.
“Mr. Rab!”
She didn’t run. She walked over slowly, as if she were checking for ghosts. She took him from my hands and buried her face in his fur. She inhaled deeply.
“He smells clean,” she whispered, pulling back to look at his missing eye.
“Yes,” I said, stroking her hair, tears pricking my eyes. “He’s all clean now. No more secrets. No more heavy things.”
She hugged him tight, her small fingers digging into the fabric that had once held so much darkness.
“He feels lighter,” she said, squeezing him.
I looked at my daughter, the girl who had survived the worst night of her life by holding onto a lie that saved her. I looked at the rabbit, the silent mule that had carried the burden of a murder.
“He is lighter, baby,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “He’s much lighter now.”
Ten years have passed since that day.
Emily is sixteen now. She drives a beat-up Honda, worries about SAT scores, and rolls her eyes when Tom makes “dad jokes.” She is resilient, brilliant, and fiercely kind.
Mr. Rab sits on a shelf in her room. He is retired now, watching over a room filled with band posters and college brochures. He is a relic of a war she doesn’t fully remember.
Sometimes, I go into her room when she’s at school. I pick him up. He is light, just fabric and stuffing. But when I hold him, I can still feel the phantom weight of the plastic bags. I can still feel the weight of Melissa’s sacrifice.
We never told Emily what was inside. We decided that was a burden she didn’t need to carry. She knows her mother died protecting her. She knows her father was a bad man. That is enough truth for one lifetime.
Last week, Emily asked me about the night of the 911 call. It was the first time she had brought it up in years.
“Mom,” she said, sitting on the kitchen counter while I chopped vegetables. “Do you think my mom knew? Do you think she knew she wasn’t going to make it?”
I put down the knife. I looked at my daughter—Melissa’s daughter.
“I think,” I said carefully, “that she knew she had to make a choice. And she chose you. Every single second, she chose you.”
Emily nodded, looking down at her hands. “I used to think Mr. Rab was magic,” she said softly. “When I was little. I thought he was the reason I was safe. Like he was a shield.”
Ik slikte de brok in mijn keel weg. « Misschien was hij dat, Em. Misschien was hij dat wel. »
Ze sprong van het aanrecht en omhelsde me. « Bedankt dat je hem die dag hebt gerepareerd, » zei ze. « Ik herinner me dat hij kapot was, en jij hebt hem gerepareerd. »
« Ik heb hem net dichtgenaaid, » zei ik in haar haar.
