The Line by Teri Hall Page A

a comfort thing, like me wearing Dad’s old socks, or you still wanting a bedtime story once in a while.”
    Rachel didn’t think Ms. Moore seemed like the type to indulge in comfort things.
    “Come in, child.” Ms. Moore looked much more like herself; better than she had looked since the accident. Her color was back, and her face gave away nothing of what she might be thinking. She motioned toward the sofa facing her. “Sit down. I want to talk with you.”
    Rachel perched on the sofa, a much more formal piece of furniture than the sentry chairs, not designed for snuggling or naps like the couch in the guesthouse. The fabric was a scratchy tweed, and the seat felt as hard as the floor. For a long moment neither of them said anything. Rachel swallowed, and cast her eyes around the room as if there might be a friendlier version of Ms. Moore hiding in a corner somewhere. Her gaze fell on the mantel; there, next to a tiny glass box, was the digim that her mother had mentioned. Rachel had not seen it many times; at the employee dinners they generally went straight to the dining room on the opposite side of the entryway. The day of Ms. Moore’s accident, Rachel hadn’t had time to look at it closely.
    The digim was in a silver frame. It was an old-fashioned, static 3-D digim, no animation or audio, so it revealed nothing of the subject besides his appearance. The man in it was young, about how old her father looked in the digims at home in the portfolio. He had dark hair that was long enough to curl around his face. He was smiling, a smile that looked like the beginning of a soft laugh. His eyes were the bluest eyes Rachel had ever seen on a human being. Vivian had blue eyes, but they were a soft blue, like the sky in the morning. This man’s eyes were blue like the vase in the entry, lapis blue. Rachel knew he wasn’t Ms. Moore’s husband, because Ms. Moore said she had never been married when Vivian asked. Who could he be?
    “Rachel, would you mind?” Ms. Moore’s voice broke the silence and Rachel’s contemplation of the mystery digim. “I had your mother fix us some kalitea before she left for Bensen, but I’m afraid my leg is being troublesome today.”
    Rachel noticed the cups and saucers on the table between them for the first time. “Oh, yes, Ms. Moore. I can do that.” Rachel stood to pour kalitea for each of them, holding her breath as she handled the delicate teapot. She sat back down on the edge of the hard sofa cushion, holding her cup while it cooled. “Thank you, Ms. Moore. For the kalitea, I mean.”
    “You are very welcome, Rachel.” Ms. Moore took a sip from her cup. “I wanted to ask you—”
    “I understand, Ms. Moore,” Rachel blurted. She couldn’t keep it in any longer. “I know that I messed up. I still don’t know what happened, I’ve thought and thought, and I sterilized everything like the notes said, and I watered just so much, not too much, but they still died. I am so sorry. And I understand why you wouldn’t want me working anymore. I have paid off the window though, so at least there’s that, and I truly am so sorry.”
    Ms. Moore sat for a moment, saying nothing. Her eyes had widened ever so slightly. She set her cup and saucer down on the table next to her chair and furrowed her brow. “Rachel,” she said, “are you talking about the tray of seedlings Jonathan told me about?”
    “Yes.” Rachel felt horrible. Was there something else she had done wrong, that she didn’t even know about?
    “Well, that is one of the reasons I wanted to talk with you today. But only because Jonathan mentioned that you seem sad. He thought the seedlings might have something to do with it.”
    Rachel blinked. “I am sad.” She felt tears flooding her eyes again and blinked harder. “I killed them.”
    Ms. Moore looked alarmed at the possibility of some sort of emotional outburst. She straightened her back, plucked at her skirt for a moment, removing an invisible speck of lint.