“I don’t eat breakfast,” Vivien said, heading toward the kitchen. “But I have some biscotti if you’d like.”
To her surprise, the girl followed her into the kitchen, boldly taking in everything there: the china in the old cupboard; the three small paintings of cafés in Venice that hung, one on top of the other, by the window; the shadow box that Vivien had made in those first weeks after the earthquake. She had collected broken things from her flat—bits of glass and wood and porcelain—and arranged them in a wooden box. The act of building something out of all of the destruction around her had brought her a strange hypnotic comfort. It was this that the girl fixated on. She stood directly in front of it, examining each item as if it held a clue to something important.
Setting the teakettle on the stove and measuring the coffee into the pot kept Vivien from yanking the girl away from her things.
“When you were here last week,” Vivien said, working hard to keep her voice steady, “you had an unusual request.”
“Yes,” the girl said. “To write my husband’s obituary, even though he is still alive.” She paused. “He has cancer, you see.”
“I’m sorry,” Vivien said.
Abruptly, the girl turned away from the shadow box, her finger pointing back toward it. “That red and white porcelain,” she said. “Where is it from?”
Vivien didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. She knew every item in that box by heart.
“A milk pitcher,” she said. “That’s all that’s left of it. It shattered a long time ago.”
“I have matching pieces,” the girl said. “A small creamer and sugar bowl.”
Vivien didn’t answer. What could she say? The pattern was a rare one, made in England to commemorate the coronation of Queen Victoria, and never produced again. She knew too that David had given several pieces to his wife as a wedding gift. He had removed the milk pitcher from their home on Nob Hill and used it every morning to froth the milk for coffee.
“I’ve never met anyone else who owns it,” the girl said.
The teakettle whistled. Vivien poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds to wet them, then counted to thirty before she filled the rest of the pot. She tried to make sense of this girl. Perhaps she was related to David’s wife. Margaret had died shortly after the earthquake, from cholera like so many others had. In her panic and grief, Vivien had gone to the house, hoping that David was there, alive. But Margaret came to the door, tall and thin and ashen, clutching a pale orange silk kimono closed. She was already ill, too ill to say all the things she wanted to say to Vivien. I have imagined our meeting for years. And now I am too weak to scream all the things at you that I have screamed in my head.
Slowly, Vivien pressed the plunger, watching the water turn dark with coffee.
“Where did you get it?” the girl was asking.
“It was a gift,” Vivien said.
She poured the rich, strong coffee into cups and placed a few anisette biscotti on a plate. Queasy, she took one and bit into it, letting the licorice flavor fill her mouth. Licorice had healing properties, she knew. It settled stomachs and soothed throats. Some believed it helped insomniacs to sleep.
The girl followed Vivien into the living room, and perched on the loveseat where she had sat during her last visit. They set about the business of fixing their coffees, adding cream and sugar, stirring. Vivien dipped her biscotti into the coffee, and chewed the softened cookie, waiting.
But the girl did not say anything. Again, she took in everything around her, narrowing her green eyes, taking stock. Her hair shone a lovely red as the morning light grew brighter.
Watching her, Vivien became aware of her own dull hair, pulled back into a messy bun, and of how she must look with the deep lines that had developed over time between her eyes and around her mouth. Sorrow lines, that was how she thought of them. She saw these same lines on younger women who had experienced great loss. Not this young woman, though. Her skin was smooth, her cheeks rosy, her eyes lively.
Vivien cleared her throat.
“How sad about your husband,” Vivien said. “And so young too.”
The girl smiled ruefully. “My husband is quite a bit older than I am, actually.”
“Oh?” Vivien managed. She found herself shoving back the idea trying to force its way into her brain. Her hands trembled when she picked up her cup, sloshing coffee onto her lap. She wiped at it halfheartedly.
“He’s almost sixty,” the girl said. She now turned her scrutiny on Vivien. “Does that surprise you?”
“Older men marry younger women all the time,” Vivien said.
The girl simply stared at her.
“I don’t even know you,” Vivien said. “I certainly am not judging you. Or your husband.”
Again, the girl said nothing.
“Tell me about him,” Vivien said. She placed her hand at her chest, wanting to slow her racing heart.
“Why?” the girl demanded.
“How can I write an obituary if I know nothing about the deceased?”