Page 75 of The Quiet Tenant

You finish your toast. He gets up and so does his kid. Today, she has time to help clean up. She doesn’t have to rush upstairs and brush her teeth, doesn’t need to hurry back downstairs, backpack thumping against her hips.

You help, too, in silence. After the last coffee mug is tucked into the dishwasher, he snaps the appliance shut and turns to his daughter.

“Don’t forget to let the dog out at noon,” he tells her. “Don’t go far.” He looks at you over her shoulder. “I’ll drop by if I can.”

She holds back a sigh. “Dad,” she reminds him, “I’m thirteen, not three. I won’t set the house on fire, I promise.”

Finally, he leaves. You hear the truck start and pull away. For the first time, it’s just you and Cecilia.

In the parallel universe he has created for her benefit, you’re taking time off work, having a staycation. It has been established by now that Rachel, your alter ego, doesn’t have a close relationship with her family. She’s staying put. Taking a breather.

Cecilia shifts to face you. Too polite to ignore you, too shy not to feel awkward around you.

“So…what are you up to?” she asks.

You think for a second. WhatisRachel up to?

“Not much,” you say. “Just chilling.”

A silence, then she goes again: “You’re not super social, are you?”

She frowns like she just said the quiet part out loud, like she’s worried she’s offended you. A memory hangs in the air, her sneer the night you tried to pull her away from this house.You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” she says, too fast. “Just—I don’t know. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

One-half of you wants to shake her by the shoulders and tell her everything,Don’t you see, you have to help me, this is all a charade, your father, he did this to me, you have to call someone, you have to get me out of here.And then there’s the other half. The one that remembers the last time you tried to get her to follow you. The one that has learned, a pattern in your neural pathways, that Cecilia is a child and there are things she’s not ready to hear, parts of her world she’s not ready to let unravel. If you try to push her, she’ll get defensive. She’ll get you into trouble.

Rule number seven of staying alive outside the shed: You do not ask the girl to save you.

And so you say, gentle, teasing, “I could tell you the same thing, you know. You’re not exactly a social butterfly.”

Something in her dims. “Yeah. I guess me and my dad…we’ve been sticking together.”

You imagine her as a child, years ago. When her family was still intact. The beginning of a string of pearls: her, her mother, her father. Each of them linked to the other two. How disorienting it must have been, half of the rug pulled from under her feet, only one person left to care for her.

“I get it,” you say. “People are complicated. Trust me, I know. Sometimes it’s easier to keep to yourself.”

She nods gravely, like you’ve touched on a deep truth.

“So…TV?”

You follow her to the living room. She brings the dog between the two of you on the couch. Rosa. She named her three days after the rescue, when her father caved and agreed to let her stay. They got her a collar and a tag. Rosa, Cecilia explained, like Rosa Bonheur, the French painter of animals. She’d learned about her in her art class. Her father nodded. That’s a nice name, he said. Very grown-up.

And now, you feel his presence around you. Eyes peering through the bookshelves, an eagle stalking his domain from up high.

For all you know, he could be right outside, ready to catch you.

Years ago, you read the story of a girl, somewhere in Europe. Eight years in a cellar, and one day she saw her chance. She ran. Ran and ran and ran until she found people. Not people—just one person. She asked for help. Finally she was heard, by an old neighbor who called the police.

Another tale of escape: three women trapped in a man’s house in Ohio. You read the headlines, back when you were still outside. He left a door unlocked; one of the women thought it was a test but she went for it anyway. Another door, locked, this time. The woman caught a neighbor’s attention. She got out, used someone’s phone to call 911. The police got there in time. They found the other two alive.

Each time, a mess. Uncertainty. The need for someone to see, to hear.

What if no one ever hears you?

In the living room, Cecilia curls up against you, dog in her lap. A quiet friendship, officially mended.

You will run one day. When you’re certain.

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