Olivia searches for her father’s finger in the sawdust-coated garage, one hand groping at the dusty floor in front of her, the other holding a plastic bag. In it are two small Ziplocs, one half filled with ice, one without, and a clean wet dishcloth. Her mother entrusted her with it before driving off to the hospital with Olivia’s father, leaving her with his moans still echoing in the cold cement room and his finger out there somewhere, rapidly losing blood. In a corner, under the lawn mower, atop the garbage can lids, under the jigsaw table itself, somewhere within the loose layers of red-flecked sawdust. Anywhere. She will find it. She is a big girl, like her mother said. She’s ten, almost eleven, and can be alone now, is old enough. Concentrating, she shakes off the confusion of sharp, scattered dream fragments and the screaming that woke her followed by her mother’s frantic yells. The bags. Ice. “Take this. I’ll be back.” Or someone will be back. Was she coming back? To get her? She was going to drive as fast as the minivan would let her. “They wouldn’t stop me. They wouldn’t dare.” This was said with that steely in-the-courtroom frown Olivia has seen out of the courtroom as well, whether her mother is opening her briefcase, filing her nails, drinking a diet soda, tidying her papers, coordinating her wardrobe, organizing the house. Taking control. Which she does in every part of their home except her father’s woodworking garage.
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