“Every single one,” she said. “Eight years. Four hundred and twelve Thursdays. I kept them all.”
I started going through them. My own messy handwriting, over and over. Out of dish soap. Found your earring. Faucet is dripping. Bought more lightbulbs. Receipt under the salt shaker.
And mixed in with the notes, there were other things.
Willa’s drawings. Every single one she’d ever left at that house. The floor plan from the snow day, with all forty-two windows counted and labeled. The GET WELL SOON picture with the yellow lights
in every window. A birthday card Willa had made when she was eleven, with a drawing of a cake shaped like a house. A little clay pineapple Willa made in sixth grade art class, to match the knocker on the blue door. I had forgotten all about that. I remembered now, Willa wrapping it in
tissue paper and making me promise to give it to Mrs. Whitaker.
At the very bottom of the box, there was a note I didn’t recognize. It was in my handwriting. But I didn’t remember writing it.
It was on the back of a hospital cafeteria napkin.
Mrs. W — Susan’s flight lands at 6. I’m going to sleep in the chair. I’m right here if you need anything. You’re not alone. — C.
