That’s what I told him earlier. When you’re grieving like that, you can’t feel physical pain the same way. And it’s true. For years I’ve lived in this ice-cold space. He’s the only person who makes me feel anything. I want more of it even as I shrink away.

He lets my hands drop to my lap and walks out of the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

My relationship with Paige Rochester blossoms after the day in the tree. We still spend most of our time playing with the kitten or playing Monopoly, but she’s way more willing to share her thoughts with me. She chatters endlessly about the characters in her game and makes up little songs about the kitten, who still goes by the name Kitten.

On a day when the weather is clear, we take a long hike down to the nearby beachfront shops in Newport, where we explore a coffee shop that sells empanadas in their bakery case, a fancy chocolatier with truffles shaped like little animals, and a toy store with an elaborate paper origami dinosaur flying beneath the sign.

We step inside, and the woman who runs it greets Paige.

“What do you love?” she asks.

“Colors,” Paige says. “Lots and lots of colors.”

And so she takes us to the side entrance where there are fairy gardens and a large selection of painted river rocks. We go home with a large case of paints and paintbrushes. Soon, there are more rocks inside the house than outside. She covers them in black railroads and red parking meters, blue treasure chests and an orange jail, complete with a “just visiting” section.

The problem is her schoolwork.

Whenever I bring it up, she shuts down completely. Stops what she’s doing, folds her little arms across her chest, and refuses to speak to me. For hours.

Unfortunately, it’s very effective. No amount of arguing, pleading, or commanding changes her behavior. I can’t even get her to look at the printed pages.

I have no means of forcing her to do the work, no way of disciplining her—not to mention, I’m not sure punishment would be the correct action to take for a grieving child.

Searching online I find that the problem is common for children who have undergone such trauma in their lives. It has nothing to do with her ability to understand the work. In fact, all signs point to the fact that she has an above average intelligence. She got As in kindergarten and can already read full sentences. She’s curious, industrious, and smart, but she’s going to flunk the first grade if something doesn’t change. And fast.

After giving a sleepy Paige a kiss on the forehead, I go to his study.

I knock, and Mr. Rochester looks up from his papers. A lamp throws his face into hard relief, making him look severe. Or maybe that’s just him.