After Lefting Me on the Bridge, He Lost His Mind novel · Chapter 17 of 24
Chapter 17: Sabina's Room
We landed at Newark on the twenty-third of December in a gray drizzle.
Quinton drove the rental, and I held a pie box on my lap, because Dorothy had told me over the phone that I was not allowed to arrive empty-handed.
"You baked."
"I bought. In Austin. It's from Renee's favorite bakery."
"She'll know."
"She'll be too happy to care."
The house in Montclair was a white colonial with a green door and a wreath the size of a tire.
Dorothy opened the door before we reached the steps.
She wore an apron over a red sweater, and flour on one cheek, and she did not say hello.
She took the pie from me, handed it to Quinton, and held my face in both hands again.
"There you are," she said. "I've been looking at the driveway since Tuesday."
"Dorothy, you said we were landing today."
"I was early."
Behind her the house smelled of cinnamon and wool and old books.
I stepped through the door, and I stopped.
In the front hall hung a row of framed photographs: two boys in baseball caps, two boys in matching Easter suits, a younger Dorothy beside a tall man with a mustache.
I had never seen any of them.
In seven years I had never once been in this hall.
"Come upstairs," Dorothy said. "I want you to see before you take off your coat."
She took my hand and led me up a narrow staircase to the second floor.
The room at the end of the hall was small, and yellow, and it had a window seat.
The quilt on the bed was blue.
There was a lamp with a green shade on the nightstand, and a bookcase full of paperbacks.
"Every year at Thanksgiving I changed the sheets," Dorothy said. "I thought, this might be the year."
I couldn't speak.
"I bought you things. I couldn't send them. It seemed too much, to send them when you hadn't said yes to the lunch."
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