“Susan’s flight lands at six in the morning. I told her I’d stay.”
“You have Willa.”
“Willa’s with my neighbor. She’s fine. She sent you this.”
I held up a piece of paper. Willa had drawn it that afternoon, when I called and told her what happened. It was a picture of Mrs. Whitaker’s house. All forty-two windows. And in every single window, she had drawn a little yellow light.
GET WELL SOON, it said at the top, in purple marker. THE HOUSE MISSES YOU.
Mrs. Whitaker looked at it. She didn’t say anything. Her chin trembled.
Then she turned her face toward the wall.
I sat there in the dark and held her hand, and I didn’t say anything either.
She was in the hospital for a week and a rehab center for five more. I kept going to the house every Thursday. I watered the plants. I dusted the piano. I got the mail and put it on the hall table.
