Laura’s eyes stayed on the phone.
“Is that recording?”
Her voice had lost its sharp edge. The pearl studs in her ears caught the morning light as she took one step toward the rocking chair.
I stayed on the floor, one hand pressed to my cheek. My cardigan had ridden up at the elbow. Owen was crying beside the glittering brass pieces, but he was moving, reaching for the soft rug with both hands. I kept my eyes on him.
“Don’t touch it,” I said.
Laura stopped.
Uma’s fingers were still closed around my sleeve. She looked down at her hand, then let go as if the knit had burned her.
“Olive,” she said. “What phone?”
I pointed again. My arm trembled, but the phone hadn’t moved. Its camera light burned against the pale nursery.
Laura swallowed. “It’s probably just—”
“Don’t,” Uma said.
She stepped around the broken lamp and lifted the phone from beside the rocking chair. Her blonde hair had come loose near one ear. The heel of one low shoe clicked against the floor. She held the screen toward herself, then tapped it.
The camera view opened.
Laura’s face appeared first, close to the lens. She was already in the room, her cream blouse tucked neatly into dark trousers. She glanced toward the door, then toward the phone. In the recording, she crossed to the lamp and lifted it with both hands.
“Shut up!” her voice rang out from the phone.
Owen flinched.
Uma’s thumb stopped over the screen. She didn’t look away.
The video showed me running in from the hall. “Put him down!” I shouted. Then I dove, both arms stretched toward the heavy brass lamp.
The image shook when it hit the rug. The lamp slipped from Laura’s hands and shattered near Owen. The phone stayed propped against the rocking chair. It caught every second.
Laura had pointed at me. “She did it!”
The recording showed Uma arriving after the crash. It showed her standing still in the doorway, eyes fixed on the broken lamp. It showed her reach for me. It showed her pull me upright and slap me hard enough to knock me down.
The room had gone quiet except for the phone’s small speaker and Owen’s crying.
Uma lowered the screen.
Laura tried to reach for it. “You don’t know what you’re looking at.”
Uma moved the phone out of reach. “I just watched it.”
“I was trying to stop him from—”
“Stop.” Uma’s voice cut through the room. “You had that lamp over his head.”
Laura’s mouth tightened. She looked to me, then to the phone, then to Uma. “She came charging in. I was startled.”
“You said, ‘Shut up,’” I said. My cheek throbbed when I spoke. “To a one-year-old.”
“I was frustrated.”
Uma glanced at Owen. He’d crawled away from the shards and was gripping the edge of the rug, face red, fingers opening and closing. I pushed myself onto one knee.
“Please get him out of here,” I said.
Uma bent and scooped him up, careful to keep his bare feet clear of the broken brass. Owen clutched the front of her grey knit dress. She held him against her shoulder and rocked once, then twice.
Laura took another step toward the phone. “Give it to me.”
“No.”
“You’re making this into something it wasn’t.”
Uma turned the screen so Laura could see the recording paused on the image of Laura holding the lamp over Owen. Her shoulders drew back. “What was it, then?”
Laura’s eyes flicked to me. “She’s the nanny. You know how she gets. She makes everything sound—”
“Don’t talk about me,” I said. I got my feet under me, one hand braced on the rocking chair. “Talk about what you did.”
For the first time, Laura looked at the broken lamp as if it belonged to someone else. A brass piece lay near the crib. Another had skidded under the rocking chair. The shade was torn open, its pale lining spread across the rug.
Uma held Owen tighter. “Why were you holding it over him?”
Laura’s lips parted, but no words came.
Uma asked again, slower. “Why?”
“I wanted him to stop crying.”
“He’s one,” I said.
Laura’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t even supposed to be in here.”
“I heard you.”
“You barged in and made me drop it.”
“You were holding it over him.”
“I didn’t drop it on him.”
The phone remained in Uma’s hand. She looked down at the screen and touched the timeline. The video played again, this time with the sound turned up. Laura’s shout. My warning. The impact. Laura’s accusation. The slap.
Uma tapped pause.
“Did you hear that?” she asked.
Laura’s jaw worked. “You’re taking her side because she’s standing there pretending to be hurt.”
I looked down at my hand. It was shaking so hard the cuff of my cardigan fluttered against my wrist. “I don’t have to pretend.”
Uma’s gaze moved to my cheek. A red mark was already rising there.
She reached for me, then stopped short. “Olive, I’m sorry.”
I didn’t answer. Owen had quieted against her shoulder, though his fingers were still knotted in her dress.
Uma put the phone in her pocket. “Laura, go downstairs.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Go downstairs. Now.”
Laura’s eyebrows lifted. “This is my sister’s house.”
“And that is my child.”
“I’m his aunt.”
“Then you should have known better.”
The words sat between them. Laura stared at Uma, waiting for a crack she could push into. Uma shifted Owen to one arm and opened the nursery door with the other.
Laura passed me close enough that I could smell her perfume. She stopped beside the rocking chair.
“You’ll regret this,” she murmured.
I looked straight at her. “The phone saw it.”
Her gaze dropped to the pocket where Uma had put it. Then she walked out.
Uma kept the door open until Laura’s footsteps crossed the hall and went down the stairs. Only then did she lower her eyes to me again.
