What She Can Reach

She learned early that the safest homes were the ones that looked ordinary.

Not clean in a way that asked to be admired, not messy in a way that invited worry. Just ordinary. A pair of shoes by the door, a dish in the sink, the fan turning on low like someone had left it running without thinking. Ordinary meant no one stopped to listen.

Rima kept the apartment ordinary.

She did it the way her mother had shown her, in small pieces picked up over time. Things said while the kettle heated. Rules spoken lightly, as if they weren’t meant to be frightening.

“Don’t open the door if you don’t know the voice.”

“Don’t talk loud in the hallway.”

“If someone asks, I’m working.”

Rima didn’t know what “working” covered exactly. She only knew it was an answer that ended conversations.

So when her mother didn’t come home, Rima used the answers she already had.

The morning it happened, her mother left before the sun finished climbing the buildings across the street. She wore the jacket with the broken zipper and the scarf she tied tight when the wind cut through the avenue. She kissed Rima’s forehead and smoothed her hair down with a palm that smelled faintly of onion and soap.

“After school, straight home,” her mother said.

Rima nodded. She always nodded. Nodding was quick. It didn’t invite more talking.

Her mother paused at the door as if she’d forgotten something. Her eyes moved over the room the way they always did, checking corners the way Rima checked corners now.

The keys jingled once.

“I’ll be back,” her mother said, and then, softer, like it was only for Rima, “Wait for me.”

Rima waited.

At first she waited the way she always did: on the bed, socks still on, backpack unzipped, listening for the familiar turning of the lock. She waited through the afternoon fan-hum and the distant siren that always rose and fell somewhere in the city like an animal breathing. She waited until the hallway light outside their door clicked off and on again.

When darkness came, Rima turned on the kitchen light because that was what her mother did when she planned to come back soon.

The light made the apartment look lived in.

She ate two spoonfuls of rice from the container in the fridge and put the lid back. She didn’t take more. Taking more would make it disappear faster. Fast disappearing things made her stomach feel sharp and hollow.

She slept on top of the blanket, clothes still on, in case the door opened and she needed to get up quickly.

In the morning, her mother still wasn’t there.

Rima went to school anyway. School was one of the ordinary things. School made people believe everything was normal.

She walked with her backpack on both shoulders the way the teacher always told them, even when it made the straps rub her collarbones. On the corner, she passed the old man who sold fruit and always stared too long. Rima kept her face straight and her eyes down. At the crosswalk, she waited for the little white walking person to appear. Her mother had said never cross on red. Red made you memorable.

At school, she kept her head down and did her work.

Her feet swung just above the floor when she leaned forward at her desk.

“Good morning, Rima,” her teacher said, bright voice and clean smile.

“Good morning,” Rima answered.

The teacher’s earrings swung when she leaned down to look at a worksheet. “You’re always so prepared.”

Rima smiled, small, practiced.

Prepared meant no one asked why.

At lunch, she said she wasn’t hungry. She said it politely. She sipped water and watched other kids trade snacks. When a girl offered her a chip, Rima shook her head. Taking things made you owe people. Owing made people watch you.

After school, she walked straight home like she had promised.

The apartment was quiet. The jacket by the door was still gone.

Rima stood still inside the doorway and listened. Sometimes you could tell if someone was in a room by the way the air felt. But the air felt flat. Still. Like it hadn’t been spoken to all day.

She took off her shoes and placed them beside the other pair by the door, toes aligned. Ordinary.

Then she went to the dresser.

There was a drawer that stuck unless you lifted it just right. Her mother had shown her once, pulling it open with two fingers, not looking dramatic, not looking sad. Inside was an envelope.

“For food,” her mother had said. “Only food.”

Rima pulled it out and held it on her lap on the bed. The paper was soft at the edges, like it had been handled many times. She slid the money out and counted it slowly. Ones, fives, a ten folded twice.

She counted again.

Then she put it back exactly the way it had been and slid the envelope into the drawer.

She didn’t cry. Crying wasn’t useful.

She went to the kitchen and washed the rice.

Her mother had taught her to rinse it until the water wasn’t cloudy anymore. Rima turned the tap just enough to make a thin stream so it wouldn’t splash loudly into the pot. The cold water numbed her fingers. She swirled the rice and drained it and did it again.

She measured water by lining it up with her knuckle the way her mother did.

She had to lean her whole arm over the pot to reach.

She set the pot on the stove, and when she turned the burner, the click made her whole body freeze, like she’d forgotten how to move.

She listened.

No footsteps in the hallway. No voices.

She didn’t leave the kitchen while it cooked. Leaving things unattended was how accidents happened. Accidents made noise. Noise made neighbors.

The water began to boil, loud and angry. She sat on the floor with her knees up and watched the pot like it was a small creature that might leap.

When it stopped sounding loud, she climbed onto the chair and turned the stove off right away. She lifted the lid carefully. Steam rushed up and fogged her glasses. She blinked until the world cleared.

The rice looked right.

She ate half. She saved half.

Saving was a habit she didn’t remember learning. It was just there in her hands, in the way she wrapped foil, in the way she pressed lids tight, in the way she put food in the fridge where it could be seen.

The first week, she told herself her mother had to stay overnight because of work.

The second week, she told herself her mother couldn’t come back yet.

She didn’t know why “yet” was important. She only knew it belonged in the sentence. It made waiting feel like a choice instead of a mistake.

At night, she left the kitchen light on because it made it look like someone was awake. Not too awake. Just enough.

She kept the fan on low because it made the apartment sound normal from outside.

She didn’t answer the door unless she recognized the voice.

One time, someone knocked and said, “Maintenance.”

Rima didn’t move. Her heart beat hard in her throat. She held her breath until the footsteps went away.

After that, she stopped turning the TV on at all, even though she liked cartoons. Cartoons were too loud. Loud meant attention.

The third week, she went to the grocery store for the first time.

She didn’t go right away because going outside meant being seen. But the rice container was getting lower and lower, and the milk was gone, and the last egg had been eaten in tiny pieces over two days. She had tried to ignore her stomach, but it started making sounds in class. Sounds made teachers look.

So she took the envelope out and slid two bills into her sock.

She didn’t bring the whole envelope. She didn’t bring the drawer key. She didn’t bring anything she couldn’t afford to lose.

The grocery store was three blocks away. The sidewalk smelled like wet pavement and old food. She walked close to the buildings, where people didn’t look at you as much. She kept her eyes down and her face empty.

Inside, the store was too bright. The fluorescent lights made everything look pale and sharp. People moved quickly, carts clacking over the tile. The air smelled like detergent and bananas and something cold.

Rima went straight to the rice. She grabbed the smallest bag that would last the longest. She checked the price twice.

Then lentils. Lentils lasted and didn’t go bad quickly. She picked the bag with the thickest plastic and the cleanest label.

Then eggs.

Eggs made rice feel like a meal. Eggs made her mother’s face soften when she cooked. Eggs were also expensive.

She opened the carton and checked for cracks the way she’d seen her mother do, fingertips gentle. She chose the carton with the darkest eggs because they looked sturdier. She didn’t know if that meant anything. It just felt safer.

She carried everything to the front, nearly stumbling and placed it on the counter.

The cashier scanned the items. The machine beeped once.

“That all?” the cashier asked.

Rima nodded.

The total came up on the screen, angled away from her. She leaned forward and rose onto her toes to see it, heels barely touching the floor. It was small enough to pay. That mattered.

She slid the bills forward, smoothing them flat with her palm.

The cashier counted her change and set the coins down. Rima closed both hands around them before they could scatter. Coins were loud when they fell.

The receipt landed near the edge of the counter, too far away. Rima waited. Stretching made you noticeable.

After a moment, the cashier slid it closer without looking at her.

“Next,” the cashier said.

Outside, the wind pressed through her shirt. Rima held the egg against her stomach with one arm and the bag with the other. It bumped against her knee as she walked, soft and steady, like it was reminding her it was there.

At home, she counted what was left.

Not much.

Careful meant no extras.

No fruit.

No candy.

No bread.

It meant smaller meals.

Her body changed in ways she didn’t know how to name. Her pants slipped. Her sleeves swallowed her wrists. When she ran up the stairs at school, her legs shook.

During recess, she stopped playing chase. She sat on the steps and watched the other kids scream and climb.

Screaming was allowed for them.

Rima wasn’t sure what was allowed for her anymore.

No one asked.

Adults were busy.

Rima kept getting things done.

The night before her birthday, she found the candle.

The morning of her birthday, she bought one egg.

That night, she cooked.

She lit the candle herself.

She waited.

She cried quietly.

She ate every grain.

She made the apartment ordinary again.

She packed her backpack.

When she set it by the door, it stood almost as tall as her knees.

In the morning, she would stand in line with the other second graders and say “present” when her name was called.

And if anyone asked where her mother was, she would answer the way she had been taught.

“She’s working.”

She would say it clearly.

She would say it quietly.

Because quiet children were easy to miss.

And Rima, who had just turned seven, had already learned how to make herself disappear.