Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE WITH TOO MANY ROOMS
Norah visited my house for the first time almost a year later.
By then she was eight.
She walked into the foyer.
Looked up.
And said:
“This is ridiculous.”
Marisol nearly died laughing.
“What?”
“You have too many stairs.”
Fair.
Juniper would have loved her.
That thought no longer destroyed me.
It hurt.
Different.
I showed Norah the library.
She ignored the rare books and found a hidden reading nook Juniper used.
“How did she fit?”
“She was five.”
“I can fit.”
She did.
Barely.
Clover first.
Then Norah.
Marisol stood beside me.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
Everyone had learned that phrase.
Norah emerged carrying something.
A small wooden box.
I froze.
Juniper's Christmas ornaments.
I had forgotten the box was there.
Inside:
A glitter star.
A crooked angel.
A red paper dog.
Juniper had made them at school.
Norah touched the star.
“Can we put this on your tree?”
I almost said no.
The tree in my house had professional decorations.
White lights.
Gold ornaments.
Perfect.
Dead.
I looked at the glitter star.
“Yes.”
That year, Norah decorated half the tree.
Badly.
Juniper's ornaments returned.
Marisol added one.
Clover shaped.
Pink ear.
I stood back.
The tree looked terrible.
Best Christmas tree I had seen in years.
At dinner, Norah asked:
“Are you still a mafia boss?”
Marisol nearly choked.
I stared.
“Who taught you that phrase?”
“Internet.”
Of course.
“What do you think?”
“You wear suits.”
Strong evidence.
I answered:
“Less than I used to be.”
“Can you stop?”
Marisol gave me a look.
I answered carefully.
“I am trying to stop doing things that make people afraid.”
Norah thought.
“That's good.”
Then returned to mashed potatoes.
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Children accept moral transformation only briefly before carbohydrates regain priority.
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