Chapter 11: Thrown Back

My mother opened the door of room six at the Blue Heron and looked at my face.

"Come here," she said, and I did.

We sat on the edge of the motel bed with the heater ticking and a Vikings game murmuring on the television.

I told her all of it, in order, and she did not interrupt once.

When I finished, she was quiet for a while.

"Two years of notes," she said.

"Yes."

"And he fixed my radiator."

"You fixed the radiator, Mom. With a spoon."

"I fixed it," she agreed. "He ate my hotdish and said thank you three times. And he let you kiss his brother."

"Yes."

"Hm." She patted my knee. "You're allowed to be mad at that."

"I am mad at that."

"Good. I just wanted to hear it said." She reached for the remote and turned the sound down.

"I'm not telling you what to do about him, honey."

"I'm telling you I never had a man write me one true line in my life, and I'd cross a lake in January for one."

"Mom."

"I'm only reporting."

I laughed, and then cried a little, into her flannel shoulder.

On Monday morning I went back to the Reading Desk to get my things.

Knox was at the long table, in yesterday's shirt.

He had not slept.

An untouched mug of coffee sat at his elbow.

He stood up when I came in, and I held up a hand.

"Sit," I said.

He sat.

"I came for my suitcase and the frames."

"They're by the door. I packed them."

"Thank you."

"It's a favor?" he asked, and I could hear him trying not to flinch.

"It's a suitcase."

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