“Sit down,” she said.
Then she added:
“I know you usually eat lunch in your car.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“Every Thursday for eight years.”
She pulled out my chair.
“Peanut butter most weeks. Sometimes turkey.” “You watched me?”
“From the upstairs window.”
“Why didn’t you ever ask me to eat inside?”
Margaret sighed.
“Because I’m a stubborn old woman who doesn’t know how to say things.”
We ate lunch together.
Actually together.
For the first time in eight years.
We talked about Oregon, Susan, the family purchasing the house, Willa, and her architecture applications.
“She’ll get in,” Margaret said.
“I hope so.”
“She’ll get in.”
After lunch, habit took over.
I began gathering the plates.
Margaret placed her hand over mine.
“Leave those.”
“I can wash—”
“Carly. Leave them.”
Then she walked over to a cabinet and returned carrying an old shoebox secured with two rubber bands.
She placed it in front of me.
“Open it.”
Inside were hundreds of pieces of paper.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Then I recognized my own handwriting.
Mrs. W — Fixed the sticky drawer. Soap on the runners. — C.
Another one.
Mrs. W — Your hydrangeas looked thirsty. I watered them. — C.
Another.
Found your pearl earring. Left it by the door.
I looked up at her.
“These are my notes.”
“Every single one.”
“Why?”
“Eight years. Four hundred and twelve Thursdays.”
Mixed among the notes were Willa’s drawings.
The original floor plan with all forty-two windows.
The hospital drawing.
Birthday cards.
And a tiny clay pineapple she had made in art class.
