Hannah turned, looking directly at Amelia. “All of this is to say that tonight was very difficult for him. He wanted everything to be perfect. For you to like me. For me to like you. And I know he didn’t mean what he said about your show. He’s so proud of you.”

There didn’t seem to be a proper response. Amelia leaned into Hannah, seemed to collapse against her, and as she did, she collapsed inside. She started to cry again and she wouldn’t have been able to say why, exactly. She cried for everything, everyone—her mother, her father, Mrs. O’Brien, Epiphany, Hannah, Casey. Herself.

Pulling away just a bit, Hannah said, “You know, when you were little, he walked you to sleep every night. He couldn’t put you in your crib if you were still awake—you’d just cry. He told me that he’d give you a postcard. You loved it apparently. It was of Babar, the elephant. So you’d clutch your beloved postcard and he’d hold you over his shoulder and carry you all around the house, bouncing you and swaying. He knew you’d fallen asleep when you dropped the postcard. Then he could put you in your crib.”

“I wonder where my mom was?”

“I think she was already sick.”

“He never told me about this.”

“That’s just the way he is, I guess.”

“But he told you.”

“Only because I found the postcard stuck behind a pile of books and file folders in his office at school. And it didn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d keep around. So, I asked him about it.”

Side by side, something passed between them. By now, Hannah’s bun was completely undone. She quickly and smoothly raked up her hair and twisted and pulled it back into place.

“Will you do that for me?” asked Amelia.

Without saying a word, Hannah reached into her pocket. She held up an elastic band with a small blue bead for Amelia to see. Then she repositioned herself on the bed. Gently, she gathered Amelia’s hair and worked it into a bun. Not too tight, not too loose. Just right.

33 • Human Frailty

“Why don’t you show me what you’re working on,” her father said the next morning.

Amelia looked at him curiously.

“At the clay studio,” he added.

They were in the kitchen; breakfast was done. Mrs. O’Brien brushed past Amelia’s father and gave his arm a squeeze. “That’s nice,” she said.

Amelia could hardly believe this was happening, but then, lately, her life had been full of surprising things. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “Okay.”

Her father hadn’t said anything directly about last night. He hadn’t talked about Hannah or about how the night had ended. This wasn’t normal fatherly behavior, she guessed, but it wasn’t atypical for him. But he was gentle with her at breakfast. And she understood his asking to go to the clay studio as his way of trying to make it up to her.