It’s 10:30 at night, but you know she’s still awake. You know this because you are the mother, and mothers know these things. And you know that she took a Really Long Nap this afternoon, because she Absolutely Had To, or All Hell would Break Loose.
But just in case you weren’t certain that she’s still awake, you know it as soon as you open the door, because immediately she pulls the covers up over her head and tries to lie very still.
You sit down on the edge of the bed, and she giggles. You feel along the legs of the lump in the bed, squeezing ever so slightly, and she giggles some more. You pull back the covers and she giggles some more, and looks very pleased because you look surprised, because you are supposed to.
You comb her hair away from her face with your fingers. It is long and oh, so blond, and is splayed out over the pillow like water, or silk, or something you’ve never seen.
“Look at my fumbs,” she says, and she lines them up next to one another, palms facing in, fingers curled under.
“I see them,” you say.
“They are getting long,” she says.
“Yes, they are,” you say, and you are thinking that they are indeed getting long, and you are trying to remember when they weren’t that long, not nearly.
“That’s because I suck them,” she says.
“Oh?” you say, and you know you’ve never said that, and you wonder where she got that idea, or if it came from her own head, like that mysterious blond hair.
“Is that what happens?” you say.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, nodding her head. “Miss Jana told me, but not my teacher Miss Jana,” and I realize that she’s speaking of a babysitter.
“I see,” I say.
“Witches have long fingers,” she says. “That’s what happens when you are a witch.”
“Oh?” you say. You are holding her fingers and looking at her fingernails, at the nail polish that is flaking away, that you put there, to her pleasure, at her request, only days before.
“Your fingers grow long,” she says.
“Well, you also need long fingers to play the piano,” you tell her, “so you can reach the keys.”
Now she looks surprised, and pleased, and folds her fingers up under her chin.
“I have some sugar,” she says, giggling already, and it is your job to get at it and her job to resist. So you try to wedge your face in that soft and still small space of her neck, and she squeezes her chin down making it nearly impossible, and she laughs and laughs and laughs.
“Now it is time for you to sleep,” you tell her.
She nods her head. “This means ‘no,'” she says, and then she shakes her head, “And this means ‘yes.'”
“Oh,” you say. “That’s tricky.” And you practice this for awhile, shaking and saying “yes,” nodding and saying “no.”
“Now it’s time for you to sleep,” you say finally.
“Sometimes I don’t know how to sleep,” she says, and sighs, and blinks in that slow way you recognize, the way that means she’s sleepy.
“I know,” you tell her, “but you don’t need to think about it. You just need to hold your bunny and suck your thumb and shut your eyes.”
You tell her this because you know that, of all things, she loves to hold her bunny and suck her thumb, and this will make her glad, and this will make her sleep.
“Good-night, Gracie,” you tell her.
“Good-night, Mama,” she says, and you smile at one another, and you think how blue her eyes are, even in the dark room, even in only the light from the hallway.
Twenty minutes later you know she is asleep, but you go in anyway, because you always do. And there she is, lying absolutely still in the bed, her bunny lying just under her chin, her fingers curled next to her cheek, her blond hair splayed out over the pillow. And you stand there, and you look at her in the light from the hallway, and this time you really do feel surprised. Because you know that you are the mother. And this does not seem believable, not even a Little Bit.
