Chương 13
“And the cake made you feel what?”
“Like I was twelve.”
“So you destroyed it.”
“I wanted you to stop looking at me.”
“I was waiting for you to blow out candles.”
“You had that expression.”
“What expression?”
“Like you knew me.”
Maya swallowed.
“I did know you.”
“That was the problem.”
Outside, a car door slammed. Somewhere in the townhouse, a smoke detector chirped once because its battery needed replacing.
Victoria glanced toward the ceiling.
Maya almost offered to fix it.
She kept her hands on the inspection report.
“I’m sorry,” Victoria said.
The words were quiet and badly timed. They arrived without a speech, without tears, without any guarantee that Victoria understood the full shape of what she had done.
Maya did not answer.
Victoria’s eyes moved toward her.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I heard.”
“Are you going to say anything?”
“I don’t know what you want.”
“I want to know whether it matters.”
“It matters.”
“But?”
“But it doesn’t repair anything.”
Victoria looked away.
“What does?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Maya gathered the contractor estimates into a neat stack.
“Offer ten thousand,” she said. “Let the buyer decide.”
“That’s it?”
“For the house, yes.”
“I meant us.”
Maya slipped on her coat.
“You are moving to Chicago in six weeks. You’re selling the house. You’re paying Aunt Helen. Those are real things.”
“And you?”
“I’m not going back to what we were.”
Victoria’s face tightened.
“So we’re done.”
“No.”
“What is the difference?”
“The difference is I’m not deciding the rest of our lives because you apologized once in a kitchen.”
Victoria glanced at the bracelet box.
Maya continued, “You can call me. I may answer. You can tell me the truth. I’ll decide what I can give. Not what you need. What I can give.”
“That sounds clinical.”
“It probably does.”
“You learned it at the hospital?”
“No. I learned it here.”
Victoria’s mouth twisted.
For a second Maya thought she might lash out. Instead she nodded.
“Fine.”
“It isn’t a punishment.”
“It feels like one.”
“I believe you.”
Maya walked toward the front hall.
Victoria followed.
At the door, she said, “Do you still have the scrapbook?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to finish it?”
Maya looked back.
“I don’t know.”
Victoria gave a short, humorless laugh. “Of course.”
Maya opened the door.
The winter air was sharp.
“Maya.”
She turned.
Victoria stood several feet away, arms wrapped around herself.
“I’m scared to move.”
Maya waited for the request hidden behind the sentence.
None came.
“I would be too,” she said.
Victoria nodded.
Maya left.
The buyer accepted a twelve-thousand-dollar credit.
The sale closed in late January.
Victoria transferred twenty-five thousand dollars to Helen on the morning the proceeds cleared. Helen tried to return five thousand. Victoria sent it back. They repeated the transfer twice before the bank’s fraud system temporarily froze Helen’s account.
Helen called Maya furious.
“She has turned repayment into harassment.”
Maya laughed so hard she had to sit down.
“Keep it,” she said.
“I don’t need all of it.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“I know what the point is. I object to the point.”
“Then buy something irresponsible.”
“I am sixty-nine years old. I have earned the right to be responsibly boring.”
She used part of the money to replace her roof and donated part to the public library, though she refused to tell Victoria the amount.
Victoria moved to Chicago during the first week of February.
Maya did not help her pack. She did drive her to the airport after the moving company collected the last boxes.
The ride began at five in the morning.
Victoria wore leggings, a wool coat, and no jewelry except their mother’s bracelet. Two suitcases filled the trunk. A travel mug rested between her hands.
They drove through dark streets toward the interstate.
“I hate airport coffee,” Victoria said.
“You haven’t bought any.”
“I’m preparing.”
Maya glanced at her.
Victoria looked out the window.
After several miles she said, “Khloe came by last night.”
“How is she?”
“Careful.”
“That sounds like Khloe.”
“She gave me a houseplant.”
“You’ll kill it.”
“I know.”
They stopped at a red light beside a twenty-four-hour gas station. A man in a reflective jacket replaced windshield-washer fluid beneath the canopy.
Victoria traced the edge of her travel mug.
“I told Becca I was sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“Lying. Asking her to lie. Making you sound unstable.”
“What did she say?”
“That she didn’t trust me.”
Maya looked at the traffic light.
“Did that surprise you?”
“No.”
The light changed.
At the airport, Maya pulled to the curb.
Victoria remained seated after Maya opened the trunk.
“This is awkward,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Are we supposed to hug?”
“We don’t have to.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Maya smiled.
Victoria climbed out. Maya lifted the larger suitcase onto the sidewalk.
A skycap approached with a luggage cart.
Victoria stood beside the open trunk, one hand on the suitcase handle.
“I made the house into proof,” she said.
Maya waited.
“Of what?”
“That I wasn’t failing.”
“Did it work?”
“For other people.”
Maya closed the trunk.
Victoria’s face was pale from the cold.
“I don’t know who I am there,” she said.
“In Chicago?”
“Without the house. Without everyone knowing me.”
“You’ll still be difficult.”
Victoria laughed.
The sound fogged in the air between them.
Then she hugged Maya.
The embrace was brief and slightly off balance because the suitcase stood between their feet. Maya’s arms remained at her sides for a moment before she placed one hand against Victoria’s back.
“I’m sorry about the cake,” Victoria said near her ear.
Maya looked toward the sliding airport doors.
“You should be.”
Victoria stepped away.
It was not forgiveness, but it was the first apology Maya had allowed to remain incomplete.
Victoria handed the suitcase to the skycap.
“Will you send the scrapbook?”
“No.”
May you like
Her face fell.
“I’ll keep it until I know what belongs in it.”
