IT'S DELICIOUS, DAD!
"See? I told you." I pulled a stool over and sat beside her, though the effort was wasted. She tipped the cup back and drained it in one long, unbroken series of swallows, set it down, and turned to me with her eyes wide and expectant.
Is there more?
"That's all for now. I'll get more later." I watched her lips fold into a frown. "But first, we need to clean you up."
She tilted her head.
C-clean? Me?
"Yes. You. A bath." I took the cup, rinsed it, and patted her head. "Like I cleaned the rest of the house."
A-ah?
I scooped her up before her nerves could organize themselves into a proper protest, carried her to the bathroom, and opened the door. Then I pulled it shut immediately.
I had cleaned the rest of the apartment that morning while Lumi slept. The bathroom I had left for later, not wanting to wake her with the noise. In hindsight, this had been a serious miscalculation. The toilet I'd already noted, with the rusted sink. But the bathtub was its own category of disaster. Hard water stains calcified into dark rings, remnants of old mortar and waterproofing compound worked into the porcelain, the sides chipping at the edges, the curtain releasing a small grey cloud of dust when I drew it back.
I gathered everything from the living room: oven cleaner, cleaning liquid, magic erasers, paper towels, microfiber cloths, the mop, two garbage bags. I pulled on the gloves.
I want to help, Dad.
"No. The chemicals aren't safe for you. Stay on the bed."
A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but she lowered her head.
Okay.
"Good dumpling. It won't take long."
***
It took forty minutes. I had lied, but the result earned it. I stripped off the gloves and wiped the sweat from my forehead and stood back. White porcelain, clean grout, curtain hanging straight. Good as new.
When I came out, Lumi was still on the mattress, but barely. She was sitting on her hands, shifting side to side, her lips pressed together with the particular tightness of someone fighting to hold something in. Her eyes were bright in a way that suggested she was perhaps thirty seconds from tears.
"Silly dumpling. It's been forty minutes. It's just a bath."
II carried her in and set her on the toilet lid while I ran the water. She sat with her fingers twisted together in her lap, her heart going at a rapid pace I could feel.
When I reached to help her out of her dress, the quivering grew worse. I stopped and pulled her gently into me instead.
Dumpling. I know about the bruises and the scars. They don't frighten me. I won't look at them or make you feel seen in a way you don't want.
The quivering paused, briefly. That was enough.
I helped her feet into the water. She tested the temperature, tensed, then wriggled free of my hands entirely and dropped into the bath with a small, decisive splash.
M-men and women can't use the washroom together!
I blinked. "...That's what you were worried about?"
She sank until only her eyes were above the waterline.
I-I saw in your mind! T-that's un-a-ccept-a-ble!
I leaned against the side of the tub, genuinely charmed. "Look closer, dumpling. More carefully. That's for public washrooms. And we're father and daughter."
I let that sit for a moment.
If you're still uncomfortable, I'll step out. It's your call.
She stared at me, eyes just above the surface, blowing a slow, thoughtful stream of bubbles. Then she went under entirely.
N-no, Dad. You can stay.
I rolled up my sleeves and reached for the soap.
"Where should I start?"
Y-you can do my hair, Dad. Only that.
She said it from underwater. I had to restrain myself from pulling her up by the arm like a fisherman hauling something precious from the deep. I wanted to announce it to someone, anyone, that I was washing my daughter's hair for the first time.
You'll need to come up for that, dumpling.
She surfaced with the careful tentativeness of a seal uncertain about the shore.
Closer. Dad's arms aren't that long. Tell me if anything hurts.
Mhm.
Her hair was very long, hanging well past her waist, grown out and untended over years of neglect. The malnutrition had taken its toll on it the way it had on everything else: each strand brittle and dull, the texture close to dry sand, the kind that might crumble between careless fingers. There was no shine, no give.
I worked slowly. There was no other way to do it. I combed through section by section, careful with every tangle, feeling the faint return of moisture and softness as I went. The quiet settled around us: the small sound of water, the gentle work of it.
I noticed, after a while, that Lumi hadn't moved.
Children her age ran on some form of perpetual, low-grade chaos. The stillness was unusual. I kept my voice low and easy, not wanting the concern in it to travel.
Are you bored, dumpling? Are your legs sore? Is the water growing cold?
No, Dad.
Okay. Let me know you are, or if it is cold, okay?
She nodded, and quiet returned with the slow ripples of water.
"Turn around, okay? I'm doing the front now. Close your eyes, or the soap will sting—sorry, did I pull too hard?"
She let out a soft grunt. Without the connection between us I wouldn't have known what it meant. I worked more gently, and when I was nearly finished I set the comb down and asked the question I'd been holding.
"Dumpling." I kept my voice careful. "Is it okay to use your voice with me? Dad wants to hear you speak."