Chapter 13: Coffee on the Back Step

My mother did not open the door any wider.

"Not on my porch," she said.

Barbara blinked.

"Come around back."

She shut the door, politely, which is a skill, and limped to the kitchen on her braced knee.

"Mom, you don't have to talk to her."

"I know I don't, baby." She took down the chipped Buckeyes mug.

"She's been out there in a cardigan for twenty minutes. Put the kettle on."

The back step was three poured-concrete stairs beside the trash cans and Gram's old tomato cages.

My mother carried out the mug and set Barbara on the bottom step.

Then she lowered herself onto the top one, with her bad leg stuck straight out, so that Barbara had to tip her head back to look at her.

I stood at the sink with the window open an inch.

Behind me, in the dark of the sunporch doorway, Lindsey stood with Mabel in her arms.

"Does she know I'm here?" Lindsey whispered.

"No."

"Don't tell her."

Barbara held the mug in both hands.

"Christmas in Charleston," she said. "The two of us, just one year.

"She could come back to you any day she liked, Peggy. I'd put it in writing."

"You asked me to name what I want," my mother said.

"I did."

"Where's your daughter?"

"Hallie's right inside," Barbara said. "I know that."

"Not that one."

The tomato cages ticked in the wind.

"Lindsey is at a friend's," Barbara said. "She goes to Columbus when she's upset. She'll be home by the weekend."

"When did you last call her?"

"She doesn't pick up."