A side track right, one clear move. From the hallway Lucy enters, stepping carefully, both hands lifting champagne satin so her feet can find the carpet. The hem drags. One nude heel clicks and then muffles. The other heel is in her left hand like a toy that grew up without her. The pink on her mouth is crooked and joyful. Loose blonde strands have escaped the half-ponytail. The thin strap has fallen off one small shoulder. She is swimming and she is shining and she is six.
The camera stops on a medium three-shot. All three faces readable. Household motion stays alive: steam, a newspaper page, the dress hem making its small dragging life on the carpet.
Lucy goes to the recliner first, because that was the plan.
The camera dollies in slowly toward father and daughter. She stops in front of him. She holds the dress out with the one hand that is not holding a shoe. She twirls once, clumsy and happy, the satin turning late, the hem wrapping her ankle, the gap in her teeth showing as she comes back around. Focus racks from the champagne fabric and the dragging hem to her proud face, freckles, bright blue eyes, the lipstick that has already traveled. Then the rack finds Greg’s face. He is amused. The amusement is real. A father seeing a small girl in a too-big costume is allowed, for one second, to think the costume came from a drawer of play. Helen stays at the ironing board in soft focus, still in the world of the shot, steam still rising.
Lucy’s voice is excited. She is showing off. She is not warning anyone.
“Daddy, do I look pretty?”
Greg’s smile is still the amused smile. He has not yet done the looking that will end it. He sees his daughter. He sees pink. He sees pride. He does not yet see the dress as a document.