Chapter 9: Her Old Room

Kirk drove me to the gate on Sunday morning and carried my one bag to the end of the drive.

He didn't have to.

The bag held two sweaters, a hairbrush, and the photo of two little girls on a porch swing.

"Back wall," he said. "Brick, six feet."

"And?"

"The garden gate is on the east side, behind the hydrangeas."

"How do you know?"

"I went to a funeral here."

He set the bag down at my feet and stepped back.

That was the whole goodbye.

It was more than anyone had given me in five years.

My bedroom was exactly as I had left it.

The blue quilt was folded at the foot of the bed.

The bookshelf held my old paperbacks.

The cardigan I had worn the night everything happened still hung on the desk chair.

There was a card on the pillow in Sheridan's handwriting.

Welcome home. I missed you every day.

I stood at the window.

Below me lay the long lawn and the garden wall.

At the very back stood the guest cottage, with its shutters closed.

I took my time unpacking, because a person who is unpacking is not doing anything else.

At nine that evening Sheridan knocked and came in with a tray of tea.

She sat on the edge of my bed in a pale cardigan with her hair down.

For a moment she looked eighteen.

"I used to sit here and wish you'd let me in," she said.

"I let you in. You slept in this bed for a month."

"I did."

She poured two cups and handed me one.

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