Chapter 11 - Saturday, Again
Rosa and Leo came on Saturday.
Grant didn't tell them about the hospital. Amelia didn't either. But Leo knew anyway—Grant could see it in the way he walked in, careful, watching her.
They went out to the garden.
Leo had brought a small portable speaker. He set it on the grass and played a song—a slow one, something with guitar.
"Okay," he said. "Same as before."
"I fell," Amelia said.
"I know."
"I can't do it."
"Okay."
"Leo."
"I heard you." He walked over and stood behind her chair. "I'm not asking you to stand."
"Then what are we doing?"
"Same thing as always. We're dancing."
He pushed her chair in a slow circle.
For the first two minutes, Amelia didn't move. Her hands stayed on the armrests. Her face stayed flat.
Then Leo stopped the chair. He came around to the front and knelt down and held out both hands, palms up.
"Okay," he said. "Just your feet."
She looked at him.
"Just move your feet," he said. "That's all. Just in the air. Like this."
He did it—lifted his heel, set it down, lifted his toe.
"That's not dancing."
"It's not not dancing."
She laughed. It was a small, tired laugh, but it was real.
She moved her right foot.
"Good," Leo said.
"That was nothing."
"It was something."
She moved her left foot.
May you like
Grant stood in the kitchen doorway with a cup of coffee going cold in his hand, and he watched his daughter move her feet in the air, and he did not move.
---
