Chapter 9: The Sunporch

My mother made toast.

She did not make a speech.

She put Lindsey in the chair by the radiator.

She took the duffel bag off Lindsey's shoulder and hung it on the hook where my coat goes.

Then she put four slices of white bread in the toaster and got out the cinnamon sugar.

"Sit," she said.

"Mrs. Weber, I..."

"It's Peggy. And you can say it after you've eaten something. You look like a girl who's been standing up all day."

Lindsey sat.

I leaned in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall and tried to figure out where to put my hands.

The toast came up.

My mother buttered it with the broad side of the knife, the way she has my whole life.

She put it in front of Lindsey on the good saucer.

"I'm sorry," Lindsey said. "I should have come eleven years ago. I should have knocked."

"Honey, you were sixteen."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Then you're eleven years late and you're still on time." My mother sat down across from her. "Eat."

Lindsey took one bite and her face crumpled.

She put the toast down and covered her mouth.

For a minute the only sound in the kitchen was the clock and a girl crying in a gray coat.

My mother didn't touch her.

She just slid the napkins across, and waited, and let her get it all out.

"Do you like raisins?" my mother asked, when it was over.

Lindsey blinked.

"What?"

"In bread. In oatmeal cookies. Raisins."

"I hate raisins," Lindsey said, thickly. "Everybody says I'm weird about it. I think they look like something that died."

"So did I. So do I." My mother turned to me with an expression of pure vindication. "Hallie loves raisins."