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.
I didn’t remember writing it. I must have written it that first night in the hospital, while she was asleep after surgery. Left it on her tray table. And she kept it. For four years.
I put the napkin down on the table. I couldn’t see it anymore. My eyes were too full.
“Why?” I said. “Why did you keep all of this?”
Mrs. Whitaker took off her reading glasses. She folded them and set them on the tablecloth. Without them, her face looked softer. Older. More tired.
