“Can I, Jackie?” Mirabelle asked, her wide green eyes gazing up at me, a picture of innocence. I wondered how she’d possibly been spared the complexities I had experienced at her age.

“Yeah, I think so.” I tried to remain positive but noncommittal. I didn’t want her to count on some future plan that probably would never happen.

There still hadn’t been mention of where Mirabelle’s father fit in. Today was Saturday. Wouldn’t he have visitation or something? Asking would open a dangerous line of questioning and I didn’t want to risk harm to Mirabelle, but I had a few theories, mostly involving Merilee running out on the poor schlub. Only why, this time, had she taken her child with her? Maybe he didn’t want poor Mirabelle. At least my father had wanted me.

My sister hiked along, happily glued by my side, an Instamatic swinging from a strap on her wrist. She hummed a tune, walking to a private rhythm in her head. A step, a step, a skip and hop, a step, a step, a step and skip.

The night before she had asked me to choose a story to read. I poked through her bookcase. Most of her books were Hawaiian-themed: The Legend of Queen Lilikulani; The Story of The Three Geckos. Happily, I came upon The Cat in the Hat, her only Dr. Seuss.

“This is one of my favorites,” I told her.

We propped up pillows on Mirabelle’s bed. She wore a thin, pink nightie with a faded seahorse on its front. I was in my boxer pajamas and a tank top.

I had no memory ever of Merilee reading at all, much less to me. “Does your mom ever read to you?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Hmm. Maybe,” Mirabelle furrowed her brow. “She sings to me sometimes. Mostly Bea though. Bea loves to read,” Mirabelle said with a dramatic accent on loves. I couldn’t tell if that meant Mirabelle enjoyed it or if it was too much.

We took turns reading aloud. I confessed how anxious the part of the book used to make me when the parents were coming home and Thing One and Thing Two had left the pink stuff all over the house, and how relieved I felt when the Cat in the Hat managed to clean things up just in the nick of time.

Mirabelle nodded as if she understood and then, laying her head on my arm, cuddled close and held me. Her neediness, for reasons I couldn’t explain, repelled me. Reflexively, I pulled my body away then covered the move by pretending to itch my back.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I answered. “Mosquitoes.”

“They never bite me. Want me to scratch for you?”