Morning Routine
The coffee maker gurgles at six forty-seven. Leo listens to it from the bedroom doorway, watching Molly sleep. She's seven. She still sleeps the way she did at three—one arm flung over her head, mouth slightly open, the blanket twisted around her legs like she's been running even in dreams. He should wake her. He doesn't yet. Downstairs, he pours the coffee into the same chipped mug, the one with the faded lighthouse that Molly gave him two years ago. The kitchen is small. The light comes in gray through the east window, the kind of light that means it might rain later, or might not. He stands at the counter and drinks the first cup without sitting down.
By seven-fifteen, he's scrambled eggs. Whole wheat toast. A glass of milk already waiting at Molly's place at the table. The kitchen smells like butter and salt. This smell is the same as yesterday's smell, and tomorrow's will be the same. He knows this the way you know the shape of your own hand. Molly comes down in her school uniform—navy cardigan, white shirt, the skirt she's already outgrown an inch—and climbs onto the chair. She doesn't say good morning. She never does, not yet. She eats first, then talks. He used to worry about this, consulted a parenting article once. The article said routine helps children feel safe. That predictability is a form of love. He'd read it twice.
She eats three bites of eggs and pushes the plate an inch away. Not hungry, or pretending not to be. He doesn't push. He butters her toast instead and sets it in front of her. She takes a bite and looks at him. Her eyes are the color of the bay on cloudy days. "You're staring," she says. "I'm not." "You are. You do it every morning." He turns back to the sink. Rinses his mug. The water is warm and the soap smells like nothing much. She's right, of course. He does watch her eat. He watches her the way someone watches something they're afraid will disappear if they look away.
By eight o'clock, they're in the car. The drive to school is twelve minutes. Route 101 curves along the coast for half of it, and on clear days you can see the lighthouse from the road, the same one pictured on his mug. Today the coast is obscured by fog. The ocean is somewhere out there, but it's invisible. Molly hums in the backseat. She's been humming the same five notes for three days. He doesn't know the song. He asked her yesterday and she said it was just a song. Just something stuck in her head.
He could draw her like this. He's thought about it before, usually in these quiet minutes, and he pushes the thought away the way you'd push away a piece of mail you don't want to open. There's no time for it. There's no space for it. There's no money in it. These are the sentences that follow. They come automatically now, like breathing. At the school, he pulls into the circular drive. A woman in a rain jacket is holding an umbrella over a small boy. The flagpole stands at the entrance, and no flag is flying today. Molly unbuckles herself and gathers her backpack. "Have a good day," he says. "I will," she says. She always says this with such certainty, as if the day is something she controls. She opens the door and then pauses. She turns back. "Dad, will you be home by five?"
"I'll be home by five," he says. She nods. She gets out. She doesn't look back as she walks toward the entrance. The hardware store is on the corner of Oak and Third. Leo has worked there for three years. He does inventory, helps customers find what they're looking for, and sometimes he paints sample boards so people can see how colors look in different light. The painting part is the only work he doesn't resent. The owner, a man named Frank who is sixty-three and has never left the state of Oregon, lets him do this without comment. They have an understanding that is not quite friendship but close to it.
Today he's assigned to the paint section. He straightens the chip displays. He reorganizes the rollers by width. He does these tasks the same way he made breakfast, the same way he drives to school, the same way he breathes. The repetition is supposed to be comforting. He's read that routine is good for structure. That it helps people feel in control.
Around two o'clock, a customer comes in asking for a specific shade of blue. Not navy, she says. Not that corporate blue. Something that feels like the sky looks before a storm. Leo finds the chip she means almost immediately. It's called Slate Horizon. He holds it up to the light so she can see it properly, and something about the color catches him in a way he doesn't expect. He thinks about Molly's eyes. He thinks about the bay. He thinks about the landscape painting competition that had a flyer pinned in the back office two weeks ago, before Frank took it down. Two weeks to submit. Five hundred dollar prize. Juried selection. The woman takes the chip from his hand. She says the color is perfect. She buys two gallons.
At four-fifty, Leo clocks out. He drives back along Route 101. The fog has lifted slightly. The ocean is a suggestion now, a darker gray beyond the road. He thinks about the competition. He thinks about what five hundred dollars would mean. He thinks about the space in the garage where an easel could fit. He thinks about the time it would take to make something worth submitting. He thinks about Molly waiting at the aftercare desk, already in her jacket, already watching the door.
By five o'clock, she's in the car. She talks about her day. A girl named Sophie got in trouble for talking during math. The teacher is giving them a project about local history. They're supposed to research something about the town and present it. Molly is thinking about the lighthouse. Everyone does the lighthouse, she says. She wants to do something different. She wants to do the kites. Leo glances at her in the mirror. The kites. There used to be a festival. Years ago, before Molly was born. He's seen the photographs. Dozens of people gathering on the beach at sunset, launching kites into the wind. Enormous kites, small kites, homemade kites with paper and wooden frames. The sky filled with color and string. "The kites," he says.
"Yeah. The Kite Festival. It doesn't happen anymore but there's pictures in the library. Sophie's grandpa was in one. He said it was amazing." Leo drives. The road curves. The lighthouse appears for a moment and then disappears again. "You should do the kites," he says. Molly is quiet for a moment. Then she says, "Dad, do you think we could make one?" He feels something settle in his chest. A weight. A responsibility. A small, clear yes. "Maybe," he says. "We could look at how."
At home, they make dinner together. Pasta and sauce from a jar. Molly stirs the pot while he stands behind her, his hand on her shoulder, making sure the wooden spoon doesn't slip. She's tall enough now to reach the counter if she stands on her toes. Soon she won't need the help. Soon she'll be the one making dinner while he watches. This thought arrives like all his thoughts about the future arrive—unbidden and unwelcome. After dinner, she does her homework at the kitchen table. Math worksheets. She's good at math. She works with her tongue poking out slightly, the way she concentrates. He loads the dishes into the sink. He doesn't turn on the water yet.
By eight o'clock, she's in bed. He reads her a chapter from a book about a girl who finds a door in her garden. He does the voices for the characters. He's very good at the voices. It's the one performance skill he has. When he finishes the chapter, he closes the book and sits on the edge of her bed. "Dad?" "Yeah?" "Will you help me with the kite project?" He tucks the blanket around her. "I will," he says. Downstairs, the kitchen is still there. The dishes are still there. The chipped mug sits on the counter. The lighthouse, faded but visible, stares out at nothing.
He stands at the window above the sink and looks toward the coast. The ocean is invisible again in the dark. But it's there. It's always there. Moving, shifting, pulling at the land with its constant, patient pressure. The fog rolls in and out. The wind comes and goes. And the kites, the ones from the photographs, once filled the sky with string and hope and the terrible, necessary constraint of knowing which way the wind blows.