He put a glass of apple juice in front of her and sat down across the kitchen table and said, "I need to talk to you about something important and I need you to listen all the way through before you say anything. Can you do that? Lily put down her apple juice. She looked at him with the 8-year-old version of full attention, completely present, slightly suspicious. Is someone dying?
Are we getting a dog, Lily? Okay, I'm listening. He told her about Nashville. He told her about the promotion, what it was, what it meant, what it would require. He told her about the school with the arts program.
He told her very clearly that nothing was decided yet and that this conversation was part of the decision, not the announcement of one. When he finished, she was quiet. He waited. She picked up her apple juice, put it down again, a processing gesture. She had done it since she was four, and it still meant the same thing it had always meant.
Information entering, system working. We'd leave our house, she said. We'd get a new one. What about Mrs. Patterson?
She'd still be here. We'd come back to visit the Muian. Same. Another pause. My school Nashville has good schools.
The one I found has a real art program. Like with a real art teacher and real supplies and gallery shows at the end of the year. Lily looked at him. A gallery show? Yeah.
She thought about this. The apple juice went up and came back down again. Is this because of your job? She asked. Like a better job?
Yes. Do you want to go? He looked at her. He had promised himself he would be honest. Yes, he said.
I think I do. Then why does it look like it hurts? 8 years old. Because the things that matter always look like that a little bit. He said before you know if they're going to be okay.
She considered this with the seriousness she gave to most things that required actual thought. Then she said, "Clare thinks you should go, right?" He blinked. How do you know I talked to Clare about it, Dad? She gave him a look. that was 30 years older than she was.