Chapter 7: Friday at Her Mother's

My mother's kitchen smelled like meatloaf and onions, and I was glad of it.

Bea had set the table for four.

"I said yes so I could see them in my house," she'd told me on the phone. "Not so they could sit."

Now she stood at the stove in her quilted vest with her arms crossed.

At six sharp, the doorbell rang.

Calvin came in first, carrying a store-bought lasagna still in its foil.

Lydia followed with a bottle of wine and a face full of apology.

"Mrs. Colby," Lydia said, and hugged her. "Thank you for having us."

"Sit," Bea said.

They sat.

Calvin looked around the kitchen.

He had eaten at this table since he was ten.

"Where's dessert, Dee?" he said cheerfully. "I put it in the note."

"I didn't bring any."

"Oh. Okay." He looked a little hurt. "It's fine. I'm sure Bea has something."

"I have a meatloaf," Bea said.

She served it.

For ten minutes we ate in the particular silence of a family dinner when nobody wants to be first.

Then Calvin put down his fork and reached into his jacket.

"Okay. Dee. I want to make this right." He took out a folded sheet and slid it across the table. "Here."

I unfolded it.

It was a sheet of lab notebook paper with a handwritten line on it.

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