“Well,” she said, patting my hand, “you must be so tired with all that to-ing and fro-ing. I’ll just say good night.”
For Mrs. Harris, the pathway between her cottage and ours might as well have been the Inca Trail. Her life had shrunk pinprick small since her husband’s death, and I had done nothing but grumble whenever she beckoned me to her porch, always with a kind word and a homemade treat. If there was anyone who needed to rejoin the world, it was Mrs. Harris. And if there was anyone who ought to invite her, it was me.
“There’s way too much food in here for one person,” I said, pointing at the bounty on the table. “You should stay and eat with me.”
“You’re too tired.”
“Come on, Mrs. Harris. Stay.”
“Maybe for a little bit.” She grinned at me, almost giddy, and I wondered just how lonely she was. Her children rarely visited. She had no one but our cottage community for company.
All through my hobbling around the kitchen to set the table, then through the entire meal itself, I found myself fielding her rapid-fire questions about the trip. Finally, when we had devoured two cookies apiece, I reached the part when Grace revealed her prosthetic leg, miming her striptease as much as I could on my one good leg.
“Whoa, this sprain makes me really appreciate what she did,” I said, lowering myself back onto the chair.
“I think that woman would scare me,” Mrs. Harris said, brushing the crumbs off her lap. It was strange not to hear the scuffling of Auggie’s paws as she scrambled to lick the floor clean, but Aunt Margie was supposed to drop her off tomorrow after work. I couldn’t wait.
“Well, maybe a little bit, but you’d love her,” I said. Between the helicopter and the plane and the pueblo and Cusco and now this conversation, I had lost track of time. I straightened in my chair and exclaimed, “You know what we’re going to do tomorrow?”
“What?” Mrs. Harris asked, cocking her head to the side.
“We’re going on a walk. After school.”
“You’re on crutches.”
“Trust me, a little thing like that wouldn’t stop Grace. So it’s definitely not going to stop me.” And I hoped Mrs. Harris heard my unspoken words: It definitely shouldn’t be stopping you. After demolishing two heaping plates of food, I leaned back in my chair, feeling bloated and ready for bed.
But then Mrs. Harris said the magic words: “Let’s see your pictures.”
I wanted to review them myself, only privately. Automatically, I said, “Oh, not yet. There are hundreds, and you don’t want to look at them all.”
“I do,” said Mrs. Harris staunchly.
“Half of them might be terrible. And all the photos from the early part of the trip were taken by someone else. I was just borrowing this camera.”
“Enough with the caveats!” said Mrs. Harris, her words softened with a smile. “I really would love to know what you saw.”
How could I deny that request when I might hear the very same plea from Dad one day? So I gestured for her to follow me to the living room, where I retrieved Quattro’s camera from the tote bag, then slid the SD card into the computer I had left downstairs before the trip. I held the laptop between us on the couch and started at the beginning with the photos Quattro had shot: me, photographing the Goliath-size boulders in the ruins outside of Cusco. Me, admiring beautiful orchids, tenacious for life. Me, laughing with Grace as she yelled, “Sexy to the end!” Sharing a look of concern with Mom. Listening intently to a story that Ruben was telling.
“Whose camera did you borrow?” Mrs. Harris asked, leaning back into the plush pillows.
I stared at the image of me, taken from up high on the trail, as I gazed out at the fog-covered mountains, my profile dreamy and soft. Quietly, I said, “Just a guy.”
“Well, you’re obviously not just a girl to him.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t think we’re even friends, not really.”
“Shana, let me tell you something.” Mrs. Harris gently covered my hand. “No man ever takes this many pictures of someone he doesn’t care about. Maybe you need to let him know how you feel about him.”
Later, after Mrs. Harris called it a night and I locked the door behind her, the house was quiet. Too quiet. The familiar whiff of cedar and pinecones may have smelled like home, but it didn’t feel like home without Mom warbling off tune, Auggie pattering from one set of cold feet to another, Dad prepping for the next morning’s running, biking, or hiking adventure.