Biscuit's Bell

"It meant I got to meet you," Noah said.

Lily wrinkled her nose.

"You met me before I stood up."

"Then it meant you got to see your grandpa turn purple."

She tried not to smile. Nathaniel pressed a hand over his own mouth in the doorway.

Noah leaned back against the leg of a chair.

"I fell after I fed Biscuit too."

Lily turned toward him.

"You didn't say that."

"I know."

"You said you went down the steps."

"I did. Then the next day I fell on the same ones. Mom caught me, mostly. I scraped my elbow."

He rubbed the old spot through his sleeve.

"I wouldn't go near them for ages."

"How long?"

"I don't know. A month, maybe. I was little. Everything took forever."

Lily stared at him.

"Why didn't you tell me that part?"

"You were happy about the dog. I didn't want to ruin it."

"I thought you just got better."

"So did everybody else. It was annoying."

Nathaniel leaned against the wall. He thought of all the times he had introduced Lily's progress to visitors before she could speak for herself.

Noah reached into his pocket and took out a small box. The corners had softened from being carried around.

Inside lay a brass bell attached to a short loop of faded red leather.

"It was on Biscuit's collar. Mrs. Turner gave it to me when he died."

Lily's face softened.

"I'm sorry."

"He got really old. He still wanted everybody's sandwiches."

Noah put the box on her lap.

"You can have it."

"It's yours."

"I know. That's how giving things works."

She touched the little bell with one finger.

"You don't need it?"

"I've got his hair on about six sweaters. Mom says we'll never get it all out."

Lily lifted the bell. Its sound was small and clear, nothing like the tray striking the floor.

She rang it again.

Nathaniel backed away before either child saw him.

At dinner, Lily asked if Audrey could come on Wednesday.

He set his fork down, then picked it up again.

"I'll ask whether she's available."

"I don't want to do the bars."

"I'll tell her."

Audrey came. They sat on the floor while Lily remained in her chair, and they talked about the sound of the tray. Nathaniel waited in the next room with a book he actually managed to read for several pages.

The following week, Lily let her feet rest on the rug while they played a board game. Later, she practiced shifting her weight. Some afternoons ended with a few seconds standing, others with tears or a request to finish early.

Once, Nathaniel arrived with a new pair of shoes he thought would make practice easier. Lily opened the box, admired the silver laces, and asked whether she could wear them to the movies instead.

He had already planned what to say about support and grip. She was waiting with one shoe in her lap.

"Which movie?" he asked.

They went on Saturday. Noah spilled popcorn into his own coat, and Lily laughed so hard that Nathaniel missed the beginning of the film.

Noah was often elsewhere during the exercises. He had homework, a science project, and an increasingly serious disagreement with Mason about whose turn it was to play goalkeeper.

Nathaniel liked hearing those complaints. They meant the boy had room in his life for things that had nothing to do with the house.

One snowy evening, Nathaniel drove Noah home after Rachel's shift ran late. The car passed a dark stretch of road, and Noah looked out at the trees.

"Do you think my dad knew I was mad at him?" he asked.

Nathaniel kept his eyes on the road.

"Did you tell him?"

"In a letter. Mom said I could. Then I felt bad because he was sick."

Nathaniel thought of an unopened envelope he had carried home after Amelia's funeral, believing it contained a sympathy card. It had held a grocery receipt. For a week, he had been afraid to throw it away because her handwriting was on the back.

"You were allowed to tell him how you felt," he said.

Noah rubbed a circle into the mist on the window.

"I still wish he'd written back."

"I wish he had too."

That was all Nathaniel had. Noah seemed to accept it.

By spring, Lily could manage short distances with walking sticks on some days. She used her chair for longer outings and whenever she needed it. The first time she asked Nathaniel to bring it halfway through a walk, he fetched it without suggesting another few yards.

She noticed.

"You can say you're proud," she told him as he locked the wheels.

He smiled.

"I'm proud."

"Just don't say it like I won the Olympics."

"Understood."

They went to see the horses. Lily fed an elderly pony a carrot from her chair and accused Noah of drawing that particular animal from memory.

Charles wrote once a month.

At first, Lily put the envelopes in a drawer without opening them. Nathaniel did not remind her they were there. Charles asked about them once during a call, and Nathaniel told him he would not check.

The formal account of the accident had been given. Nathaniel dealt with the follow-up questions outside the children's hearing. It did not bring Amelia back or settle his anger, but Charles could no longer decide which parts of that day existed.

His letters described ordinary things: a book, rain against the apartment windows, a dog that waited outside the bakery. He did not report his loneliness or ask Lily to fix it.

One night, she brought the whole stack downstairs.

"Can I read them in here?"

Nathaniel moved his papers off the sofa.

She opened every envelope. When she finished, there was a small pile of torn paper beside her wheel.

"Do you still love him?" she asked.

Nathaniel looked at the latest letter.

"Yes. I'm still angry with him too."

"I don't know what I feel."

"You don't have to pick one thing."

She touched the bell hanging from her chair's side pocket.

"He can come on Sunday," she said at last. "But only for ten minutes."