Waiting

The girl looks around the place. "Shit Mom, look at all the dolls."

They explore the apartment. "Rose you take this room," the mother says of the larger bedroom, "It'd make me feel lost."

"Mom, I'm just so tired, I like didn't sleep at all on the plane."

She sits on the bed and takes off her sandals, "I can't believe we're meeting my sister tomorrow. It's so like her to run off with some guy and not tell anyone."

"Your Uncle David says the guy's an American ex-pat. Wanted in the US for tax evasion. That's why its secret."

"Whatever," the girl yawns, "I'm like so looking forward to the beaches and casinos, I'd've never come otherwise. Why are we staying in this dump anyhow? We could be in a resort just as easy."

"I've told you a hundred times, your Uncle's paying for this trip, Rose. This place is owned by his company. We're saving him some money. He's already put out considerable money just to track your sister down."

"Whatever, I do so wish Tom could've come too."

"You're Uncle's resources are not infinite, dear, no matter what you kids may think!"

"Whatever. I'm just glad Uncle David didn't take it into his head to come. You do know he was screwing her, don't you? The dirty old man. He probably just wants to get her back."

"Rose, what a horrible thing to say!"

"Whatever. Oh Mom, I'm like so tired. Just leave me alone now won't you?"

The girl showers and gets into bed. Her mother turns off the lights, then sits in the gloom, looking across at the lights of the city, watching a plane cross before the buildings, dreamlike and silent.

The mother rouses herself. She moves her luggage to the apartment door. She slips into the large corner bedroom and in the dimness picks up the clothes Rose has strewn about and drops them into Rose's suitcase. The girl's purse follows, then the girl's cellphone and travel clock, arranged on the bedside table. She shifts the bed covers. Rose is wearing the slightest of pink nighties. From somewhere her mother produces a pair of scissors. She cuts the nightie's shoulder straps and then gently lifts the thin cloth above her daughter's chest and cuts in a line to the hem, down above her thighs. The girl mutters something and rolls without waking. The sheer little thing is now free. Throwing the rag in the suitcase, the mother pulls the covers up to her child's chin for the last time.

You take no interest in the mother's departure, in the rattle of the suitcase, the sound of the door opening and closing, in the silence that follows. You watch the girl's sweet sleeping face, eager for when those closed eyes open come morning.