Eventually, I found a pair of dark jeans in the back of the closet that I had purchased for Willa’s art exhibition in first year and never wore again. No bleach stains. And a blouse, pale blue, with small white flowers. I only wore it to school events. Parent-teacher conferences. Awards evenings.
Willa came into my room while I looked in the mirror.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “You are beautiful.”
“Ms. Whitaker asked me to come.”
“A Saturday?”
“She said it
was a visit.”
Willa raised her eyebrows. “Like a social visit? Like a friend?”
“I don’t know”, I said. “I guess.”
“Bring something”, Willa said. “You can’t go to someone’s house for a visit with nothing. It’s rude.”
She was right. So Friday evening we made cookies. Oatmeal chocolate chips. Willa’s recipe, the one she had been perfecting since middle school. I put them on a paper plate, covered them with plastic wrap, and tied a small piece of ribbon around the top, which made me feel ridiculous.
I even cleaned the back seat of my car. I thought maybe she had some old clothes she wanted to donate. Or dishes. Or books. People who move always have things they want to get rid of. I was used to it. Half of the furniture in my house came from moving clients.
At 10:55 a.m., I parked on the
sidewalk in front of 418 Linden Street.
At 10:59 I went up the porch steps.
At exactly 11 a.m., I raised my hand to knock on the blue door with the brass pineapple.
For the first time in eight years, I knocked. I didn’t use my key.
She opened the door right away. She wore a soft gray sweater and a pearl necklace. She looked at me in my dark jeans and blue blouse. She looked at the cookies with the ridiculous ribbon.
“You look lovely, Carly”, she said. “Enter.”
Most of the house was empty. Our footsteps echoed down the long corridor.
But the kitchen had the round table by the window and two chairs. And on the table there was a white tablecloth. And two real plates, porcelain plates with little blue flowers on the edges. And two real glasses. And real cloth napkins, folded into
