The Song That Didn't Fit

Barnaby padded into the kitchen, his golden tail knocking a soft rhythm against the cupboards. He settled beside Nora and watched her with the hopeful patience of a dog who knew breakfast might improve.

I kept my voice casual. “Mom used to put Barnaby’s biscuits in the pantry.”

Nora dried her palms on a towel. “Did she? I’ll find him one.”

She crossed to the pantry and swung the door open. Then she began checking shelves, shifting a cereal box and peering behind a row of cans.

Barnaby followed her movements with his nose tilted upward. Nora searched the lower shelves first, then reached toward the top. She seemed unsure where anything belonged.

I watched her, silent. Mom had always stored Barnaby’s treats in a wide pottery jar on the counter, beside the toaster.

That jar had cracked a few days earlier. Dad had replaced it with a red carton of dog biscuits and put the carton in the pantry. Nora found it after looking around.

She had gone to the pantry because that was where the treats lived now. She didn’t know where Mom had kept them before the jar broke.

Still, it wasn’t enough. A person could forget a jar. I needed to ask about something older, something that belonged only to the way Mom did things.

“Nora?” I called.

She turned with a biscuit in her hand. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“It’s Chloe’s birthday today,” I said, pretending it was no big deal. “Mrs. Gable said we could take candles to school if we had some. Are there any from my birthday?”

Dad glanced up from his tablet at last. “I doubt we have candles, Em.”

“Maybe we do,” Nora offered. She opened the cabinet drawer beneath the oven, where we kept pans and measuring cups, and began moving things aside.

“There are sprinkles,” she murmured. “And food coloring.” She shut the drawer and tried the one beside the refrigerator instead.

Nora looked through the odds and ends inside. Batteries, twist ties, and rubber bands came into view as she searched.

Mom had been afraid of fire. She never left candles or matches in a kitchen drawer, especially so close to the stove.

Instead, she hid them in an empty tea tin on the highest shelf in the laundry-room cupboard. Dad used to tease her about that strange little rule.

Nora had no reason to know it. She was checking the places where most people would keep candles, not the place Mom had chosen.

“I’m not finding any, Em,” she said, gently pushing the drawer closed. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I answered, keeping my face calm. “Maybe I got mixed up.”

Dad rose from his chair and finished the coffee in his mug. “Well, I’d better get to the office. Emma, I can drive you to school.”

“Okay, Dad.”

He leaned over and kissed Nora’s cheek. It was a small, familiar gesture, but I felt a prickling unease. Was he part of the secret?

I studied his face. The tired shadows beneath his eyes had lingered since Mom died. He looked worn down, like he was trying to keep the pieces of his life from falling apart.

He didn’t seem like someone planning anything cruel. But he had brought Nora into our house, and he had already told me a lie about the bookstore.

I took my backpack from the hook in the hall and slipped its strap over my shoulder. Behind me, Nora gathered Dad’s empty mug.

“Have a nice day at school, Emma,” she called.

“Bye, Nora,” I said, then followed Dad outside to his car.

The air had a sharp morning bite. I climbed into the passenger seat while familiar houses slid past the window, one after another.

Dad drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the radio. He hummed along under his breath as if nothing was wrong.

At a red light, I broke the quiet. “Dad, did Mom have a sister?”

His fingers stopped moving. The silence thickened around us, while the cheerful song on the radio suddenly sounded all wrong.

Dad kept staring at the light. His jaw tightened before he answered. “No. Your mother was an only child. Why do you ask?”

“I found an old picture in a book,” I said, making myself sound like a child who had simply noticed something odd. “It looked like there were two of her.”

The light changed, but Dad stayed still for a moment. A car behind us honked, and he jerked forward, pressing the gas harder than he needed to.

“It must have been a camera mistake, Em,” he said. “Old pictures sometimes came out doubled. Your mom had no brothers or sisters.”

I believed he was lying. His knuckles had gone pale around the steering wheel, and his hands said what his mouth wouldn’t.

“Okay,” I whispered, leaning back against the seat.

Dad pulled into the school’s drop-off lane. Usually he parked, took off his seat belt, and hugged me before I went inside. This time, he kept his foot on the brake.

He looked through the windshield instead of turning toward me. “Have a good day, Emma,” he said, stiffly.

I unfastened my belt and stepped out. Without glancing back at the car, I headed for the school’s heavy glass entrance.

Dad had answered more clearly than he knew. He recognized Nora, and he was doing everything he could to keep me from learning who she was.

The bell rang as I entered my second-grade classroom. Mrs. Gable sat at her desk, sorting a tall pile of bright papers, and I walked in certain Dad was actively hiding Nora’s identity from me.