Page 7 of Clever Little Thing

“Remember the wacky pizza night we used to host in San Francisco?” Pete said as he brought the pizza box to the table. “We were so determined to make a unique pie every time.”

“We did that save-the-ocean pizza with squid ink and anchovies,” I said.

“And what was that dessert one? Birthday-cake pizza: Cool Whip, sprinkles—”

I laughed. “Please stop talking before I throw up.”

“Those pizzas do not sound delicious,” Stella said. I’d made her preferred meal: pasta and sauce, served in separate bowls.

Pete squeezed my hand. “But they were delicious. Always.” He traced a finger along our beautiful oak table. “We all had to squash round that tiny IKEA table in those days. Do you remember—”

“Stella, take a few more bites,” I said. She wasn’t eating.

“Sweetie,” Pete said to me, and I knew what he was saying. We’d agreed we’d never pressure her to eat. Better for her to listen to her body’s natural cues. But what if something was wrong? Juvenile thyroid cancer wasn’t necessarily hereditary, but her face did look a little puffy. I leaned across the table to feel her neck.

“You’re tickling me.” She pulled away. “Daddy, can I be done?”

“You don’t have to eat any more if you’ve had enough,” Pete told her. “Go and read if you like.”

“She’s barely eaten today,” I said. “Do you think she could be coming down with something?”

“She’ll eat when she’s hungry. And she looks fine to me.”

Once she’d gone upstairs, I asked Pete if he had drawn the cross on the wall.

“Definitely not.”

“That’s weird,” I said. “Stella says it wasn’t her. Who was it then?”

“Could’ve been that guy who fixed the fridge,” Pete said.

“Why would he draw a cross on the wall opposite?”

“Then I guess itwasStella.”

“But Stella never lies to me,” I said, although she also hadn’t denied it.

After dinner, Pete volunteered to do her bath and bedtime. I wasn’t sure. In recent months, he’d still been working when she went to bed. If he was home, he always went in to say good night, but he didn’t know the details of her current routine. It was easier for me to do it. But maybe I needed to let him take care of her more. Time with Stella would remind Pete that her strangeness was part of what made her wonderful and that our job was to love her as she was. “Remember to run the water with the door closed,” I told him. “She doesn’t like the sound of the taps running.”

While Pete ran the bath, I decided to call Blanka’s mother, Irina. She answered the phone on the first ring.

“I wanted to let you know how sorry I am,” I said. “We were very fond of Blanka.” There was a long silence. “Hello?”

“This happens last week,” Irina said. “Thursday.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, stricken. “I only just found out. I’m so sorry.”

“Nobody tells you.”

I wasn’t sure what point she was making. Was she saying it was OK I hadn’t called earlier? Or maybe suggesting that nobody hadtold me so I should stay out of it? Charlotte Says: In a conversational impasse, when you have no idea what to say next, simply repeat what the other person has said. At least they know you’re listening.

“Nobody told me,” I said.

“I have met your daughter,” Irina said, changing tack abruptly. “Blanka brings her to visit sometimes.”

“Oh?” That was odd. Why had Stella never told me about these visits?

“You have beautiful daughter,” Irina said.

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