I asked:
“Who are you?”
“Just somebody who heard about her.”
“From who?”
“Town talks.”
I hated that answer.
Our accident had appeared in local news.
People knew.
Some donated money.
Others sent cards.
Most meant well.
But my daughter had become a story before she had figured out how to become herself again.
I said:
“She doesn’t want visitors.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
The man looked toward our closed curtains.
“Because somebody once sat outside for me.”
I did not understand.
Before I could ask, he walked toward our porch.
I stepped between him and the door.
He stopped immediately.
Did not challenge me.
Did not become offended.
Instead, he held out a small wooden box.
“For her.”
“I don’t think—”
“She doesn’t have to keep it.”
He placed the box on the porch step.
Then returned to the motorcycle.
No speech.
No dramatic explanation.
He put on his helmet and rode away.
My daughter waited until the sound completely disappeared.
Then rolled into the hallway.
“What did he want?”
“He left something.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You haven’t seen it.”
“I still don’t want it.”
I carried the box inside.
My daughter followed at a distance.
The box contained a small polished metal bell.
Old motorcycle riders sometimes attached them low on a bike for luck.
One word had been engraved across its side.
FORWARD.
My daughter stared.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s stupid.”
I closed the box.
“Okay.”
“Throw it away.”
I didn’t.
I put it inside the kitchen drawer.
She watched.
“You said you’d throw it away.”
“No.”
“I said okay.”
“That’s not the same.”
“You don’t have to look at it.”
She rolled away.
The following Thursday at four fourteen, my daughter was already near the window.
She pretended she was not.
At four fifteen, the engine arrived.
She flinched anyway.
The motorcycle stopped beneath the maple.
The biker sat there.
My daughter stared through a small gap in the curtain.
“Why did he come back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell him to go.”
Before I could move, he crossed the street.
He did not approach the door.
Instead, he placed a paper bag at the bottom of the porch steps.
Then walked back.
My daughter opened the door before I could stop her.
“HEY!”
The biker turned.
My daughter glared through the screen.
“I told you to go away!”
He removed his sunglasses.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then go.”
He nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He left.
My daughter watched the motorcycle disappear.
Then noticed the paper bag.
“Get it.”
“You told him to leave.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you want his bag?”
“Because I need to know what stupid thing he left.”
I brought it inside.
A yellow rubber duck sat inside.
The duck wore a tiny handmade black motorcycle helmet.
My daughter stared.