The Puck’s Bunny

Ch.6

CLAIRE

The penthouse had an aroma of lemon-scented cleaning products mixed with the scent of wealth.

That was the first impression I got the following morning when the elevator doors slid open and I entered my new reality, clutching the final remnants of my belongings that had been caught in yesterday's storm. I had two suitcases and a duffel bag that I salvaged at dawn. Mrs. Parker greeted me in the foyer with a smile reminiscent of those given at funerals.

"Mr. Asante departed for team practice at six o'clock. He typically comes back between seven and eight. Chloe is in her room. She has been awake since five," she remarked, grabbing one of my suitcases before I could object.

"Since five?"

"She struggles with sleep," Mrs. Parker stated it as if it were as obvious as the sky being blue. Just a simple fact. Nothing unusual. "Breakfast is served at seven-thirty. Her meal plan is posted on the refrigerator. I do the grocery shopping on Tuesdays and Fridays, but if you require anything specific, there's a list on the counter."

I trailed behind her down the hallway, my sneakers making a squeaky sound against the hardwood floor. The penthouse appeared different in the morning light. It felt colder, in a way. The floor-to-ceiling windows that had seemed so impressive during my interview now made the space feel exposed, like living in a fishbowl high above the city. Every surface shone brightly. Each pillow was arranged at the perfect angle. The throw blankets on the couch looked as if they had never been used to provide warmth.

My room was located at the far end, three doors away from Chloe's. I placed my bags down and perched on the edge of the bed. The mattress was silent. It didn’t sag in the center. There were no mysterious stains from previous tenants that I had to hide with a cleverly positioned pillow. This is just temporary, I reminded myself. A means to an end. Earn the money, pay the bills, ensure Mom's prescriptions are filled, and keep Sarah in school. Don’t get too comfortable. Comfort is what leads to carelessness.

I finished unpacking in just fifteen minutes, which is all it takes when your entire life fits into two suitcases. Clothes are in the dresser. A framed photo of Mom and Sarah rests on the nightstand. My laptop is on the desk. On the bedside table lies my copy of Eros Asante's forty-seven rules, with my own notes scribbled in the margins from the weekend.

I stepped out of my room and made my way down the hall to Chloe's door, which was ajar. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, just as I had seen her through the doorway during my interview, deeply focused on her sketchbook. Today, she wore a blue dress, different from the yellow one, but of the same style, as if someone had purchased six identical dresses in various colors. Next to her, a stuffed bear was propped against the leg of her bed.

"Good morning, Chloe." I leaned against the doorframe, keeping my tone light. No baby talk. No forced excitement. Just casual. "I'm Claire. We met last week. I'll be spending some time with you, if that's alright."

She glanced up at me. Those large brown eyes examined me with the same quiet intensity as before. She didn’t smile or wave, but she also didn’t look away. After a moment, she shifted slightly, creating space on the carpet beside her. I took that as an invitation and settled down next to her. Her sketchbook was open to a drawing of what looked like a house. Not a penthouse, but something smaller, with a triangular roof, a front door, and two windows resembling eyes. It was a child’s interpretation of what a home should look like. The door was colored black, the windows yellow, but the rest remained just pencil outlines, incomplete.

"That's a wonderful house," I remarked. "Is that where your rabbit lives?"

Nothing. She picked up a green pencil and began to color in the grass under the house. Slow, deliberate strokes that remained perfectly within the lines. Her shoulders had lowered about half an inch, tension easing from her body in such tiny increments that you might overlook them if you weren't observant. I was observant. The first day established the pattern for the week.

Mornings: breakfast at seven-thirty, adhering to the prescribed meal plan that I was fairly certain had been created by someone who had never actually encountered a five-year-old. Whole grain toast with almond butter. Sliced strawberries. A glass of milk, specifically organic, specifically whole fat, specifically from a brand I had never heard of that likely charged by the cow.

Chloe consumed about half of everything and arranged the strawberry slices into a design on her plate that I eventually recognized as a face. I didn’t tell her to stop playing with her food. I added blueberry eyes, and she looked at me for a full four seconds, which felt like a standing ovation.

By Wednesday, I began to bend the rules.It wasn't an act of rebellion; it was a matter of survival. The penthouse was so still that I could hear the clock ticking in the living room. Chloe glided through the apartment like a specter, moving from room to room in her socks without making a sound. The silence wasn't serene; it was oppressive, the kind that fills your ears until your own heartbeat feels like an unwelcome interruption.

So, on Wednesday afternoon, while Chloe was at the kitchen island engrossed in a puzzle, I took out my phone, connected it to the Bluetooth speaker that Mrs. Parker had tucked away in a cabinet, and played some music. Not too loud. Not aggressive. Just Aakash Gandhi's "Kiss the Sky," softly and gently, filling the kitchen with a warm ambiance as I prepared Lily's afternoon snack. I found myself humming along absentmindedly, swaying slightly at the counter as I sliced apples into the required uniform thickness.

Rule #14: No singing in common areas during work hours. Technically, humming doesn't count as singing. I was ready to defend this argument in court if it came to that.

Chloe lifted her head from the puzzle. She observed me from across the island, her pencil suspended in mid-air. I continued humming, swaying, and slicing apples as if nothing unusual was occurring. After a moment, her head began to move. Just slightly. A minuscule, nearly unnoticeable tilt from side to side, following the rhythm. I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress a smile that threatened to break free.

On Thursday, I took things up a notch. I brought Chloe's art supplies into the living room and laid down newspaper on the floor, which technically broke Rule #31 since I was "rearranging decorative items" by shifting the coffee table six inches to the left. We settled on the floor together and began to paint. Not the meticulous, educational, color-inside-the-lines type of painting that the approved activity list likely had in mind. This was genuine painting. Delightfully messy painting. I dipped my fingers into blue and pressed a handprint onto the newspaper, while Chloe watched me with a look akin to horror, as if I had just committed a serious crime.

"Your turn," I said, extending the paint tray toward her.

She glanced at the paint. Then at me. Then at her clean hands. Finally, with great caution, as if she were defusing a bomb, she pressed one fingertip into the yellow paint and touched it to the newspaper. A single dot. Perfectly round. Perfectly controlled.

"Gorgeous," I remarked. And I truly meant it.

By Friday, the dot had transformed into a sun. By Saturday, the sun had developed a face. We were making progress. The evenings, however, were more challenging.

Eros returned home between seven and eight each night, heralded by the sound of the elevator and the distinct rhythm of his footsteps in the foyer. He always checked on Chloe first, standing in her doorway for a minute or two while she drew or played. Then he would retreat to his office on the third floor, and I could hear the muffled bass of phone calls through the ceiling until well past midnight. Our conversations were minimal. He left notes on the kitchen counter. Actual handwritten notes on real paper, as if we were communicating through a time capsule.

On Saturday night, I read to Chloe before bedtime. Technically, this was Eros's responsibility, according to the schedule he had provided. But he was caught up in a conference call that had been dragging on for two hours, his voice a low murmur through the ceiling, and Chloe was sitting on her bed in her pajamas, clutching her bear, gazing at her bookshelf. I knocked on the open door. "Would you like me to read you something tonight?"

She glanced at me. Then she looked up at the ceiling, where her father's voice resonated through the plaster. Then she turned back to me and shifted over on the bed, making space. I sat down and selected a book from the shelf. The Lorax. A classic. I read it the way my mom used to read to me. Not in a flat, calm, responsible adult tone, but with a full performance. Different voices for different characters. When I reached the last page, the room fell silent. Chloe remained there, clutching her rabbit, staring at the closed book as if it had personally wronged her by coming to an end.

I waited.

She remained still.

"Would you like me to read it again?" I inquired.

Silence. Just her large brown eyes, unblinking, fixed on my face. The stillness in the room was so dense I could sense it weighing on my skin. I stood there, contemplating whether I had overstepped, whether she required some distance and I was overwhelming her. Then I heard it.

"Again."