immediately. “Tough day here. You caught me between appointments.”
“I’m on my way to see Mia. She cut off her hair. Pedra told me.”
Johnny’s voice sharpened. “You went by the house without me?”
“I found a picture of you with an old girlfriend. Sitting on a dock at a lake. There’s an old building on the dock. Who’s the woman?”
“I would have to see the picture. There were so many women.” He seemed to think this was banter.
“I thought I knew everything about you.” But I had to admit, I’d held on to a few pictures of old boyfriends, too. At least, before the fire.
“Does anyone ever know everything about anyone else?”
“Is that a tongue twister?”
“You’ve still got a lot to learn about me and vice versa. I’ll tell you anything you need to know.”
“Anything?”
“Ask away, and I’ll answer. I used to wear boxers before I switched to tighty-whiteys. I have nothing to hide, except . . . well, maybe a few small things.”
“Like what?” My heartbeat sped up.
“Like, I had acne when I was twelve. Gigantic cysts. That’s the real reason I became a dermatologist.”
“You’re making this up.”
“You’re right. The truth is, my grandfather died of melanoma.”
“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?” I knew his grandfather had died in his fifties, but I hadn’t known how. What else was Johnny keeping from me?
“I didn’t want to talk about it. I wish I could’ve saved him.”
“Now you’re spending your life making up for it, trying to save others.”
“Something like that.”
“You’re doing a great job. Oh, I’m almost here. Gotta go.”
I hung up as I turned onto Ferndale Glen and parked in front of Harriet Kimball’s house, a pink bungalow with a double garage and thick lace curtains in the windows. Well-tended, dormant rosebushes dotted the front garden, waiting for the sun to return in spring.
I strode up the driveway and knocked on Harriet’s front door. When she answered, she looked as if she had worked hard to unwind her years. Her face appeared smooth but not young, as if she’d ironed every wrinkle into submission. A layer of powdered foundation covered her cheeks. She wore the same auburn wig that I remembered from her visits to Sitka Lane. Only now it was clear that the wig was actually her own hair, growing from her very own scalp. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
“Sarah,” she said in a throaty voice.
“I’m so sorry . . .”
Harriet’s lips trembled, and she wiped away tears, smearing her makeup. “I’m sorry, too. Sorry about your home. I can’t thank you enough for saving Mia.”
“I wish I could’ve done more.” My skin felt thin, my insides vulnerable. Without thinking, I pulled Harriet into a tight hug, surprised at the woman’s frailty. How cruel life could be, how senseless. A son wasn’t supposed to leave his elderly mother with only her memories and a grandchild to care for alone.
“You did more than enough.” Harriet ushered me inside, closed the door, and pressed a finger to her lips. “She’s asleep,” she said softly.
I mouthed “Oh” and looked around at the comfortable furniture, everything lived-in, plush. Harriet’s home reflected her love for roses—rose-print couch, rose-colored chair, plastic roses in a vase. Dolls, picture books, and balled-up tissues were strewn here and there among the roses.
“She hasn’t slept well,” Harriet said, walking stiffly to the couch. She sat down just as stiffly.
I remained standing at the threshold of the living room. The air smelled faintly of rosewater and Nivea cream. I glanced down the dim hallway to the left and imagined Mia crying for her parents, cutting off her hair while Harriet slept. “Can I see her now?”
“Maybe when she wakes up.” Harriet gestured to a chair. “Want to sit? I should’ve offered you tea.”
I removed my shoes and padded to the chair in my socks, not wanting to smudge dirt on the pale pink
“I’m on my way to see Mia. She cut off her hair. Pedra told me.”
Johnny’s voice sharpened. “You went by the house without me?”
“I found a picture of you with an old girlfriend. Sitting on a dock at a lake. There’s an old building on the dock. Who’s the woman?”
“I would have to see the picture. There were so many women.” He seemed to think this was banter.
“I thought I knew everything about you.” But I had to admit, I’d held on to a few pictures of old boyfriends, too. At least, before the fire.
“Does anyone ever know everything about anyone else?”
“Is that a tongue twister?”
“You’ve still got a lot to learn about me and vice versa. I’ll tell you anything you need to know.”
“Anything?”
“Ask away, and I’ll answer. I used to wear boxers before I switched to tighty-whiteys. I have nothing to hide, except . . . well, maybe a few small things.”
“Like what?” My heartbeat sped up.
“Like, I had acne when I was twelve. Gigantic cysts. That’s the real reason I became a dermatologist.”
“You’re making this up.”
“You’re right. The truth is, my grandfather died of melanoma.”
“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?” I knew his grandfather had died in his fifties, but I hadn’t known how. What else was Johnny keeping from me?
“I didn’t want to talk about it. I wish I could’ve saved him.”
“Now you’re spending your life making up for it, trying to save others.”
“Something like that.”
“You’re doing a great job. Oh, I’m almost here. Gotta go.”
I hung up as I turned onto Ferndale Glen and parked in front of Harriet Kimball’s house, a pink bungalow with a double garage and thick lace curtains in the windows. Well-tended, dormant rosebushes dotted the front garden, waiting for the sun to return in spring.
I strode up the driveway and knocked on Harriet’s front door. When she answered, she looked as if she had worked hard to unwind her years. Her face appeared smooth but not young, as if she’d ironed every wrinkle into submission. A layer of powdered foundation covered her cheeks. She wore the same auburn wig that I remembered from her visits to Sitka Lane. Only now it was clear that the wig was actually her own hair, growing from her very own scalp. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
“Sarah,” she said in a throaty voice.
“I’m so sorry . . .”
Harriet’s lips trembled, and she wiped away tears, smearing her makeup. “I’m sorry, too. Sorry about your home. I can’t thank you enough for saving Mia.”
“I wish I could’ve done more.” My skin felt thin, my insides vulnerable. Without thinking, I pulled Harriet into a tight hug, surprised at the woman’s frailty. How cruel life could be, how senseless. A son wasn’t supposed to leave his elderly mother with only her memories and a grandchild to care for alone.
“You did more than enough.” Harriet ushered me inside, closed the door, and pressed a finger to her lips. “She’s asleep,” she said softly.
I mouthed “Oh” and looked around at the comfortable furniture, everything lived-in, plush. Harriet’s home reflected her love for roses—rose-print couch, rose-colored chair, plastic roses in a vase. Dolls, picture books, and balled-up tissues were strewn here and there among the roses.
“She hasn’t slept well,” Harriet said, walking stiffly to the couch. She sat down just as stiffly.
I remained standing at the threshold of the living room. The air smelled faintly of rosewater and Nivea cream. I glanced down the dim hallway to the left and imagined Mia crying for her parents, cutting off her hair while Harriet slept. “Can I see her now?”
“Maybe when she wakes up.” Harriet gestured to a chair. “Want to sit? I should’ve offered you tea.”
I removed my shoes and padded to the chair in my socks, not wanting to smudge dirt on the pale pink
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