On the last day, before going home, Susan found me in the kitchen. I was wiping the counters.
“Carly”, she said. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“My mother is not a person who says things”, Susan said. “You probably noticed. She was a
school principal for twenty-eight years. She ran this school like a navy ship. She loved my father and me. But she never said it much. She showed it. In very, very small ways.” She looked at me. “I just want you to know. She’s talking about you. On the phone. Every week.”
I stopped wiping.
“She does?”
“Every Sunday when I call. ‘Carly found my pearl earring.’ ‘Carly fixed the sticky drawer.’ ‘Carly’s daughter counted the windows.’” Susan smiled. “I know more about you than some of my own cousins.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You saved his life”, Susan said. “The doctor said it. And I know she’ll never tell you. So I say it. THANKS.”
She hugged me. Right there, in the kitchen, with the cloth still in my hand.
After Susan left, things returned to normal. Above all.
Ms. Whitaker still left notes. She still left
