Willa came into my room while I was looking in the mirror.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “You look nice.”
“Mrs. Whitaker asked me to come over.”
“On a Saturday?”
“She said it was a visit.”
Willa raised her eyebrows. “Like, a social visit? Like a friend?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess.”
“Bring something,” Willa said. “You can’t go to somebody’s house for a visit with nothing. That’s rude.”
She was right. So on Friday night, we made cookies. Oatmeal chocolate chip. Willa’s recipe, the one she’d been perfecting since middle school. I put them on a paper plate and covered them with plastic wrap and tied a little piece of ribbon around the top, which made me feel ridiculous.
I even cleaned out the back seat of my car. I figured she might have old clothes she wanted to give away. Or dishes. Or books. People who are moving always have things they want to get rid of. I was used to it. Half the furniture in my house came from clients who were moving.
At 10:55, I parked at the curb in front of 418 Linden Street.
At 10:59, I walked up the porch steps.
