“I would think the opposite, actually.” David leans into the wall. A strand of his hair falls into his eyes. He moves it back mindlessly. “I don’t know if a lawyer would be able to see the trees through the forest.” He grins like a child.
Maybe it is the lame joke or his silly grin as he makes it, but I laugh aloud. We stare at one another, a heartbeat longer than either one of us should. I look away first. I have to.
“I should go.”
“Of course.” Reaching the door before I do, he holds it open for me. When I motion for him to go ahead, he says, “Take care.”
I watch him leave, the door shutting behind him. I spare a glance at my father. It is the last time I will see him. As I raise my hand in a good-bye, I decide against it. It is useless. His actions, his words, have left an imprint far greater than a simple good-bye can erase. Walking out, I feel the door shut slowly behind me.
TRISHA
She came to say good-bye. She hasn’t spoken the words aloud yet, but I see it in her eyes. I know it the way I knew when she was scared as a child but refused to admit it. It’s three in the afternoon. I glance out the window as the chai on the stove simmers. The scent of cut ginger and spices fills the air as the milk heats. Mothers pour out of their houses, gathering into groups to make the daily walk to the neighborhood school. The lower grades are dismissed first and then twenty minutes later the upper grades. I know their schedule as if I had my own children.
Sometimes the children will run into one another’s homes, creating an unscheduled playdate. The moms will shake their heads in mild frustration but follow their children in, always ready for some tea and talk time. They have never invited me. Why would they? They know there is nothing I can contribute to an afternoon discussion of school gossip about teachers and other parents.
I pour the chai into two china cups, both so thin, so fragile, that one slip and the cups will shatter. I add one sugar to mine, two in Sonya’s. She always had a sweet tooth. When we were kids, Papa would buy one box of chocolate mint cookies from Sonya’s Girl Scout troop. Mama would divide the cookies evenly between us three girls. I would take one from my stack and eat it carefully, savoring every bite. Hiding the rest from Sonya became a mission. She would finish all of hers in one sitting. Yet, no matter where I hid them, Sonya would find them. It might take her a few days or even a week, but she would keep searching until she discovered them. From then on, I asked Papa to hide them in his desk, knowing Sonya would never dare to take them from him.
I shake off the memory, reaching into the cupboard for my expensive truffles and other exotic delights I keep for when I entertain executives from Eric’s company and their censorious wives. Filling a plate, I set it next to the chai and head back to the living room. She is pacing. A caged animal, she moves on her long legs from one side of the room to the other.
“Here we go.” I set the serving tray down and hand her the cup. She takes a sip and nods at me in gratitude. “How have you been?” Small talk—the guarantee against speaking about anything with meaning. A barrier against hearing her tell me what I don’t want to learn. “Have you visited old friends? Reacquainted yourself with the town? The weather has been great.”
“Your home is beautiful,” she says, avoiding answering my slew of questions. Sonya sets the chai down, having taken only a sip or two. “And your husband seems like a wonderful man.”
“Thank you. He is.” I set my cup down also, next to hers. The handles touch, a union of two pieces so similar that one piece has nothing distinctive to separate it from the other. “He said you were lovely.”
“Really?” She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable. “Even though I missed your wedding?”