Chapter 5: The Woman at the Door
The flight landed at six-forty in the morning.
I hadn't checked a bag.
I had packed one small carry-on the night before, moving around my house in the dark, choosing things without thinking too hard about what I was doing because if I thought too hard I would talk myself out of it.
I took a cab from the airport.
I had Clara's address written on a piece of paper in my coat pocket, though I had memorized it within an hour of Diane giving it to me.
The house was a small craftsman on a quiet street, pale green with white trim, a narrow porch with two chairs on it.
A child's bicycle was leaned against the railing, pink with a basket on the front.
There was a light on in the front room behind a curtain.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment.
Then I walked up the porch steps and knocked.
I heard movement inside.
Then silence.
Then more movement, closer to the door.
The woman who opened it was not Clara.
She was perhaps sixty, well-dressed for early morning, with the composed expression of someone who had been expecting trouble and had prepared accordingly.
She looked at me the way people look at things they intend to turn away.
"You must be Ruth," she said.
She didn't move from the doorway.
"Patrice," I said.
"Clara isn't receiving visitors."
"I'm not a visitor.
I'm her mother."
"You're a woman she hasn't spoken to in fifteen years." Her voice was pleasant, the way a closed door is pleasant — it doesn't slam, it simply doesn't open.
"This isn't a good time.
She's resting."
"It's seven in the morning," I said.
"And she contacted me.
She sent me something in the mail and she texted me two days ago."
Something moved behind Patrice's eyes.
She hadn't known about the text.
"Whatever she sent you, she was having a difficult week.
She wasn't thinking clearly."
"Her doctor's report says she is thinking clearly.
Fully."
A pause.
The pleasantness cooled slightly.
"How do you know what her doctor's report says?"
"Because she sent it to me."
Patrice straightened.
"Ruth, I understand you want to help.
But Clara has support.
She has me.
She has family around her.
What she doesn't need is someone from her past showing up unannounced and making this harder than it already is."
"I'd like to hear that from Clara."
"She's resting—"
"Patrice."
The voice came from behind her.
Quiet.
A little rough, the way voices are first thing in the morning.
But steady.
Patrice turned.
I looked past her shoulder.
Clara was standing in the hallway in a gray cardigan, her hair loose, one hand resting against the wall.
She was thinner than I remembered.
Her face was older, of course — thirty-three, not eighteen — but the eyes were the same.
Dark and careful and watching everything.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said: "Let her in, Patrice."
Patrice didn't move immediately.
"Clara, you need to rest—"
"I said let her in."
The silence between them was very brief and very clear.
May you like
Patrice stepped back.
I walked through the door.
