After everything, after the white smear of headlights from the darting car, Madison's dad threw out the t-shirt with the blood on it, did so without hesitating as if he had somehow confused the trashcan for the laundry hamper. Lately he had been ducking out in the middle of the night to go on short walks, mostly just down to the water. There was something about silently easing back into the apartment and checking in on Madison. Afterwards he could usually sleep.
Last night he had been on such a walk when someone hurled a bottle from a passing car, striking him in the face. There was the slight whistle of the bottle as it rotated in the air, and the soft ping of the glass as it bounced on the pavement. The pain was driving and concentrated at first—then grew into an unbearable, horrible pressure descending upon every square inch of his skull. He drew his hands up to his head but was unwilling to touch it. The right-angle where the apartment building met the sidewalk seemed inviting, and he fell to the ground and tried to wedge his shoulders in between the two surfaces—wishing he could pull the brickwork of the building over his body to form a barricade between the pain.
An hour later? he was situated on the kitchen floor when Madison's door opened. He felt guilty he was unable to check on her this time around. The young girl stuck her head out; blond bangs partially masking the look of sleep and concern on her face. The subdued light in the kitchen made it seem natural for her dad to be sitting on the floor without his shirt, a wet washcloth over his eye. With her stuffed elephant in tow she walked across the kitchen tile (wearing one of her dad's white t-shirts that cascaded just past her knees) and sat on his lap. The headache made it seem like he was inside a bulky space suit—made Madison feel like a mundane sack of flour and not his daughter, all knees and elbows and full of questions.
When the phone rang Madison stood up and answered it, simply saying: "wait please." She brought it to her father. With little hesitation he took up the phone and carefully removed the batteries. He set the allotment of parts on the floor and continued to try to regain his faculties with his back resting against the cupboards. For some god-awful reason someone had been trying to phone him at three in the morning. That was the second time in three weeks. Madison stood next to her incapacitated father for a few moments and then quietly marched off to the bathroom. Afterwards she paused in the hallway, unsure of what to do at such an odd hour of the night. Dressing herself seemed natural, and she returned to her room.
"Madness?" Her father said softly from the kitchen. "Madness, where are you?"
"Right here, daddy," she said into the large freestanding mirror in her bedroom. She turned to look out the open door leading to the kitchen and heard the light sound of dishes clanging against one another. She wandered back and found him leaning over the sink.
As he heard her approaching he held out his hand, even though he was still mostly sink-oriented. She walked over and grabbed it, and proceeded to drape the rest of his arm about her shoulders.
"Darling," he said, "I'm afraid I'm not particularly worth much at the moment."
"Do we get to call Dr. Carmichael?" With this she released herself and went over to the fridge. She retrieved the small red and white magnet with the doctor's contact information on it and waved it around for his viewing—although he did not look.
"Close sweetie, but no." He withdrew from the sink and took a moment to straighten the drawstrings on her hood.
"Why are you holding your head like that? Do you have my grain?" Now that the strings had some symmetry, she was free to return the magnet to the fridge.
"No sweetheart." He contemplated it for a moment, and then removed the washcloth only to refold it and place a cooler portion back over his eye. Madison saw the wound and gasped, taking cover in the crook of her elbow. Her eyes welled up, and suddenly her father found himself with the task of wiping tears away with his thumb. "It's too early in the morning for tears, young lady. Besides," he said as he looked at the green digital clock on the microwave, "that bed of yours isn't through with you yet."
"But I'm already dressed." She pulled away from him and continued to dab at the tears with her shirtsleeve.
"Well, this time around you'll have to sleep in your sweatshirt." She contemplated this in her head, the tears taking a back seat to the idea of sleeping in her clothes. The corduroy skirt she chose along with the hooded sweatshirt was too—she wasn't sure. Thick? Heavy? Her father opened a nearby drawer, and after some poking and prodding, found the items he was looking for. Madison stood behind him and pulled the hood down over her eyes. She slowly bent her arms in and flapped them around like a chicken in slow motion. She watched as her dad tilted his head in such a manner as to balance the washcloth over his eye, giving him the use of both hands. He then cut a snippet of twine from the tangled mass he'd found in the drawer with a pair of children's safety scissors. He looped it around his head and tied it, securing the washcloth and creating a makeshift eye patch. He then took a black Sharpie marker and gave himself an overstated handlebar mustache. He turned around very casually and said, "well kiddo, what do you say you and me hit the couch and get some shut—"
"Dad," she said, drawing out the word and bringing her chicken flapping to a halt, "you have Sharpie all over yourself."
"Sharpie? my dear, certainly you must be referring to my mustache." He knelt down and tickled her stomach. "Shut eye?" he said, "and then we'll watch some Saturday morning car—"
"Dad," she said again, drawing it out much longer, easing out of embarrassment into uncontrollable giggling—"you look weird." Before she could stop laughing he seized the opportunity to pick her up and sling her over his shoulder. He carried the bright-eyed girl over to the couch.
The clock on the microwave reads eight thirty-seven. Madison wakes up to her father tickling her ear with the trunk of her stuffed elephant. He's on the phone, and the couch looks as if it were at the bottom of a crater left by an explosion of blankets and pillows. She notices her shoes perched on the coffee table next to a green beer bottle. "Cartoons," her father says softly as he covers the end of the phone and hands her the remote control. He motions to the TV with a flick of his chin. After raking some hair out of her eyes, she presses the buttons on the remote very deliberately, sticking out her tongue in concentration. One, and then, two—channel twelve.
"I don't know why," her father says into the phone. "It was just some kid—" he pauses—"well, I don't know that either." He picks up the bottle and holds it up to the light as he listens. He tries to decipher what part of it struck him. "Recourse?" he says, setting the bottle back down and standing up to pace behind the couch—"there's no recourse. Some kid threw a bottle at me and that was it. I wasn't in a position to get—" Madison's father mentions something she doesn't quite catch. She lifts up various blankets and pillows in search of her elephant. It catches her eye on the other side of her father, and upon reaching over his lap to retrieve it she promptly squishes it between herself and the armrest for safekeeping.
