By eight o’clock, I had nearly convinced myself I was imagining things. The girls built their blanket fort between the couch and two dining chairs, arranged pillows inside it, and spent fifteen minutes arguing cheerfully about which movie deserved to be called the greatest movie ever made. Kaylee voted for an animated film about dragons. Mia wanted the horse movie they had watched during their previous sleepover. Their debate sounded so normal that my uneasiness began to feel intrusive.
I made popcorn and carried the bowl into the living room. Mia had changed into pajamas. Kaylee had changed too, though I hadn’t seen her do it. She wore gray sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt.
The pink sneakers remained on her feet.
“You’re sleeping in those too?” I asked lightly.
Her smile vanished.
“I can.”
“You certainly can’t be comfortable.”
“I am.”
Mia reached into the popcorn. “She wants to keep them on, Mom.”
I glanced at my daughter. “I heard her.”
There was a defensive note in Mia’s voice that surprised me.
Kaylee stared at the television.
I sat in the armchair rather than returning immediately to the kitchen. Neither girl asked why. The opening credits started. Winston circled twice on his bed and collapsed with a sigh.
For several minutes, nothing happened.
Then Kaylee shifted her legs.
Her right heel touched the rug.
She sucked in a breath.
It was tiny, barely audible beneath the movie, but I heard it.
“You okay?”
Her head snapped toward me.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Mia looked at her friend, then at me.
That exchange bothered me more than Kaylee’s answer.
I muted the television.
Both girls protested at once.
“Mom!”
“Mrs. Harper, I’m fine.”
“I haven’t accused anyone of anything.” I kept my voice calm. “Kaylee, you’re limping.”
“I’m not.”
“I saw you.”
“My shoes are just tight.”
“Then loosen them.”
She didn’t move.
“Kaylee?”
“They’re okay.”
“If they’re hurting you, keeping them tight will make it worse.”
“They don’t hurt.”
“You just said they were tight.”
Silence.
Mia stared at the popcorn bowl.
I felt the conversation changing beneath my feet. What had begun as a mundane discussion about footwear had somehow become something all three of us were treating as dangerous.
I unmuted the movie.
“All right,” I said. “We’ll leave it.”
Kaylee released a breath.
Again, relief.
Again, too much of it.
I went into the kitchen but remained where I could see the living room through the doorway. The girls watched the movie. Mia laughed at all the familiar jokes. Kaylee laughed a second after Mia did, as though taking cues from her.
At 8:37, my phone buzzed.
A message from Greg.
Everything okay?
I stared at it longer than necessary.
I typed: Yes. Girls watching a movie. What time do you want her tomorrow?
The typing dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
We’ll let you know.
That was odd. Greg had always been organized about pickups.
I typed: Kaylee seems to be favoring one foot. Did she hurt herself?
The typing dots appeared again.
Then vanished.
A minute passed.
Two.
No response.
I set the phone on the counter.
At 8:46, another message arrived.
This one was from a number I didn’t recognize.
She gets dramatic about minor things. Please don’t encourage it.
I read the sentence twice.
Who is this? I wrote.
Tasha.
I looked into the living room.
Kaylee was watching me.
The instant our eyes met, she looked away.
I walked farther into the kitchen before answering.
I only asked because she seems uncomfortable.
Tasha responded almost immediately.
She’s fine. She had a little blister earlier this week. If you make a fuss she’ll obsess over it.
A blister.
There it was.
A harmless explanation.
Exactly what I wanted.
I should have felt reassured.
Instead, the wording bothered me.
Not because it proved anything. It didn’t.
Because nobody had mentioned a blister until I asked about Kaylee’s foot.
I wrote: Okay, thanks.
Tasha sent a thumbs-up.
I returned to the living room and sat beside Mia.
Kaylee looked at my phone.
“Was that my dad?”
“No.”
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket.
“Tasha?”
I nodded.
“What did she say?”
“That you might have a blister.”
Kaylee went pale.
The change was unmistakable.
I lowered my voice. “Do you?”
She nodded.
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
The answer came before I had finished the question.
“Kaylee.”
“It’s okay.”
“If your skin is broken, we should clean it.”
“She already did.”
“Tasha?”
Another nod.
“What did she put on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bandage?”
“Yes.”
“Then why can’t we check it?”
Kaylee looked toward Mia.
Mia was no longer watching the movie.
“Because I’m not supposed to take my shoes off.”
The room seemed to become quieter.
“Who told you that?”
Kaylee immediately shook her head.
“I just don’t want to.”
“That isn’t what you said.”
Her breathing changed.
I recognized the beginning of panic now.
“Okay,” I said quickly. “Nobody is taking anything off.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
That frightened me more than if she had started crying.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“I can go home.”
“No, honey.”
“I can call Dad.”
“No.”
That word came out more firmly than I intended.
Kaylee stared at me.
I softened my voice. “You don’t need to go anywhere. You’re Mia’s guest. You’re staying here tonight.”
“Unless I’m bad.”
“You aren’t bad.”
Her eyes dropped.
Mia slid closer and put a handful of popcorn into Kaylee’s lap.
“Can we just watch?”
“Yes,” I said.
I turned the volume back up.
For the next twenty minutes, I watched Kaylee instead of the movie.
Her shoulders gradually relaxed. She ate three pieces of popcorn. Then four. When Mia whispered something, Kaylee smiled.
At 9:12, she stood to go to the bathroom.
That was when I saw the stain.
A dark reddish-brown mark had appeared along the white fabric just above the back rim of her left sneaker.
“Kaylee.”
She stopped.
“What?”
I pointed.
She twisted awkwardly to look.
The color drained from her face.
“Is that blood?”
“No.”
I stood.
She backed away.
“Sweetheart, hold on.”
“It’s not.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
I took one step.
Kaylee stumbled backward so violently that her shoulder struck the wall.
Mia jumped up.
“Mom!”
I stopped immediately.
Kaylee pressed herself against the wall. Her eyes were huge.
“Don’t make me.”
Four words.
Not I don’t want to.
Not It hurts.
Don’t make me.
I raised both hands.
“I won’t.”
She stared at me.
“I promise.”
Her breathing remained rapid.
“I’m not touching your shoes.”
The terror slowly eased from her face, but she didn’t move away from the wall.
Mia came beside her.
“You can use my bathroom,” she whispered.
Kaylee nodded.
The girls disappeared down the hall.
I stood alone beside the couch, staring at the place where Kaylee had been sitting.
A small rusty smear marked the pale rug.
I crouched.
Touched it with one fingertip.
Wet.
Blood.
My phone was in my hand before I consciously decided to pick it up.
I opened Tasha’s message.
She’s fine.
Then the next sentence.
If you make a fuss she’ll obsess over it.
I looked toward the hallway.
A bathroom door clicked shut.
For the first time that evening, I stopped asking myself whether I was overreacting.
I began asking a different question.
What could make an eight-year-old girl more frightened of removing a shoe than of bleeding through it?
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: Kaylee Finally Let Me Look at One Sock, and What I Saw Made Sending Her Home Impossible
The Sleepover Began Normally Until Kaylee Wouldn’t Take Off the Pink Sneakers She Had Worn Inside All Evening
Part 2 of 19
