“That’s my boy,” said Waverly Linwood. “That’s Lennox.”
“He has my ears,” said Wynne.
“He does,” said her grandmother. “Oh, he does.”
I do not know how long we stood there.
I know that at some point Mr. Amory, who had not taken his eyes from the window, said very quietly, “I’m going to give you a minute,” and went out, and I heard him in the corridor, on the far side of the door, blowing his nose.
I know that Waverly sat down, finally, at a low table, and that Wynne climbed onto the chair beside her and began to explain, in great detail and with no encouragement, the plot of the picture book she had been reading, which involved a badger.
I know that Waverly listened to every word.
And I know that at about a quarter to five, when Wynne ran out of badger, Waverly looked up across the table at me, for the first time, with her son’s eyes, and said:
“Mrs. Eastwood. Before anything else. I need to say something to you.”
My stomach dropped.
“I’ve been sitting in my kitchen for seven years not knowing whether that child was alive. I would have given anything to know she was safe.” Her voice cracked and righted itself. “And she is. She’s safe, and she’s clever, and she knows how to explain a badger. And that’s you. That’s what you did.” She held my eyes. “I’m not here to take her. I’m here to say thank you. And, if you’ll let me, to ask whether I might be permitted to sit near her sometimes.”
