My head doesn't hurt anymore, he said. Good, she said. Was it bad? He asked. You had a high fever, she said.
You were sick. You're better now. He thought about this with the seriousness he brought to most things. Were you scared? He asked.
She considered the question honestly. A little, she said. But being a little scared just means you're paying attention. And I was paying very close attention. He seemed satisfied by this.
Clara, he said. "Yes." "Will you stay?" He said. "Not just today."
I mean, he paused working to get the words right. "Will you stay with us? For always?" The question landed in the quiet room with more weight than he knew he was giving it. She kept her voice steady.
"That's a conversation for your father and me," she said carefully. "But I can tell you that I am not planning to go anywhere." "But do you want to stay?" He pressed. "Not because you have to.
Because you want to." She looked at him 6 years old with Eleanor's eyes and an absolute refusal to accept an answer that wasn't the real one. "Yes," she said. "I want to stay." He smiled then a slow, complete, satisfied smile.
"Good," he said. "Because I decided you're mine." She blinked. "Yours," she said. "Mine and everybody's," he said magnanimously.
"But I decided first, so mostly mine." He settled back against his pillow. "Can I have something to eat? I'm very hungry." "I'll see what I can do," she said.
She went downstairs and stood in the kitchen alone for a moment. "I decided you're mine." She pressed her hand flat on the counter and took a breath. She had come here to survive, to be useful, to have a purpose and a place and enough to eat and work that meant something. She had not come here expecting anything beyond that.