Chapter 3: The Woman at the Door
She looked about twenty-five.
Dark hair pulled back.
A coat still buttoned like she'd driven a long way and hadn't thought to take it off.
Her eyes moved from me to Greg and back again, and I could see she hadn't expected me to be standing there.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
"I didn't know he hadn't told you."
"Told me what?" I said.
"Who are you?"
Greg stepped forward.
The blanket was still against his chest.
"Laura—"
"Don't." I held up one hand.
"Let her answer."
The young woman looked at Greg.
He gave a small nod.
"My name is Diane," she said.
"Diane Calloway.
I live three streets over, on Fenwick."
The name meant nothing to me.
The street did — a quiet road behind the park, the kind with older houses and deep yards.
"I've been working with your husband for the past four months," she said.
"Not — it's not what you're thinking.
Please.
Can we go inside?"
I didn't move.
"What is in that blanket, Greg?"
He came toward me slowly.
He held it out.
I looked down.
A small cat.
Gray, with a white patch on her chest.
She was wrapped carefully, her eyes closed, her body already still and cold in the way that leaves no doubt.
"Her name was Rosie," Greg said.
"She belonged to the family next door to Diane.
An elderly woman.
Ruth.
She's eighty-one and lives alone."
I stared at him.
"You've been sneaking out at night to care for a neighbor's cat?"
"Ruth had a fall in October," Diane said quietly.
"She broke her wrist.
She couldn't manage the stairs well, and Rosie was old — nineteen years old — and needed medication twice a day.
Ruth was too proud to ask anyone for help.
She told me she'd manage." Diane's voice tightened.
"She wasn't managing."
"How did Greg get involved?"
"I work with a volunteer network," Diane said.
"We check on elderly residents who live alone.
I met Greg at one of our information evenings back in September.
He signed up to help."
I turned to look at my husband.
He was watching me the way he used to watch our children when they were sick — waiting to see how bad it was going to get.
"You signed up to volunteer," I said slowly, "and you didn't tell me."
"I was going to."
"Four months ago."
"I know."
"Greg."
"I know, Laura."
Diane shifted her weight.
"He was wonderful with Ruth.
She doesn't have family nearby.
Her daughter is in Arizona.
She hasn't visited in two years." She paused.
"Rosie was everything to her.
Greg sat with that cat every night this week.
She was declining fast, and Ruth couldn't bear to be alone with it."
I looked down at the bundle in Greg's arms again.
The blue blanket.
My mother's blanket.
"You used Michael's blanket," I said.
"Ruth didn't have anything suitable." His voice was barely above a whisper.
"And I thought — I thought Michael wouldn't mind.
If he knew."
I didn't say anything for a long moment.
The yard was very quiet.
The porch light hummed.
Somewhere down the street a dog barked once and went silent.
"Is Ruth all right?" I finally asked.
"She's asleep," Diane said.
"I stayed with her until she went down.
She doesn't know yet.
I'll tell her in the morning." She looked at the blanket.
"I came to help Greg.
He called me when Rosie stopped breathing.
He didn't want to do it alone."
Greg set the bundle gently into the hole.
He smoothed the blanket over her.
His hands were careful and slow, the way they had been when we'd buried the children's goldfish in this same yard twenty-five years ago, and Michael had cried, and Greg had said, *She had a good life.
That's what matters.*
He picked up the small spade.
I reached out and put my hand over his.
"I'll help," I said.
He looked at me.
"You're not angry?"
"I didn't say that." I took the spade from him.
"But it can wait until morning."
Diane watched us from the porch, her coat still buttoned.
"There's something else," she said.
Greg and I both looked up.
She held out the photograph.
"I found this in Ruth's kitchen tonight, while I was making her tea.
It was sitting on the counter, face-down.
I almost didn't look." She paused.
"I think you need to see it."
May you like
I took the photograph from her hand.
And the cold that moved through me had nothing to do with the night air.
