Chapter 20: The Letter

He didn't argue.

He stood in the rain and nodded, once, the way he had on the church steps.

"She's yours," he said. "I signed it. I meant it."

He looked up at the window one more time.

Nessa had drawn a heart in the fog on the glass with her finger.

He raised his hand to her.

Then he got in the car and drove away down Dorchester Avenue, and the bus shelter was empty.

Una put her arm around me and walked me inside.

She locked the door and turned the sign to CLOSED at four in the afternoon on a Monday.

"You're shaking," she said.

"I'm cold."

"You're shaking," she said again, and put the kettle on.

The next morning, I called the landlord in Portsmouth from the back room.

I signed the lease on my phone, standing between the steam press and the button jars.

Twelve months. Shop and flat. First month and deposit from my father's money.

It was the first time I'd touched it.

I told myself he'd want it spent on this.

Then I called a moving company in Quincy and booked a van for December twentieth.

The woman on the phone asked how many rooms.

"One," I said. "And a sewing machine."

That night I told Nessa.

I'd been practicing it in my head all day.

I sat her on the bed and showed her the photos on my phone. The bay window. The slanted ceiling. The red tugboats.

"Your room," I said. "With a window for boats."

She looked at the pictures for a long time.

"When?"

"Before Christmas."

"Is Una coming?"

"Una lives here. She'll visit. She'll drive up and eat all our food."

"Is the dinosaur boy coming?"

"No, sweetheart. There'll be new boys. Maybe some with dinosaurs."