Friday, November 20
Beth came at eight with her coat already on.
Jo opened the door before Willa reached it. For a moment Willa stood in the kitchen and heard them greet each other without seeing either face.
“You're early.”
“By four minutes.”
“Then you've got time.”
“I've got twenty.”
They came in together. Beth had a small bag over one shoulder, not the enormous work tote she'd carried for Jo. Her hair was tied back. She looked rested enough for Willa to realize how tired she'd looked all week.
“Morning,” Willa said.
“Morning.”
Jo had made coffee and put three cups out. There was a paper bag on the counter, folded at the top.
“For the road,” she said.
“What's in it?”
“Things.”
Beth opened it. Clementines, already peeled, in a little container; cheese; two pieces of cake wrapped separately. She looked at her mother.
“You peeled them.”
“You can't do it while you're driving.”
“I'm not driving the whole way.”
“Then you'll have somebody to feed.”
Beth closed the bag. Willa watched her thumb smooth the fold.
“Thank you.”
They sat. Jo asked when she'd arrive. Beth gave a time and added that it depended on stops. Jo asked which hotel, then corrected herself before Beth answered.
“You'll send it.”
“I will.”
“Not because I'm checking.”
“I know.”
Willa kept her eyes on her cup. The two of them had a way through these exchanges that didn't require her to translate either one.
Beth asked whether Martin had come.
“Yesterday.”
“How was he?”
“All right.”
Jo lifted her cup and found it empty.
“He brought a thing.”
“He's always bringing a thing.”
“Where he finds them.”
“Behind things,” Beth said.
They laughed. Willa laughed too, late enough to feel her own position: loved, included, not at the center of every memory.
Beth took a piece of cake from the bag, unwrapped it, and ate a little.
“That's for later,” Jo said.
“I've got a system. I eat some now and then it's still for later.”
“Very sophisticated.”
“You trained me.”
“Not in systems.”
The kitchen went quiet after that, comfortably for a moment. Willa looked at the three cups, each at a different stage of being emptied. She wanted to keep the scene exactly as it was without making anybody agree it was a scene worth keeping.
Beth checked the time.
“I have to go.”
Jo didn't ask for another five minutes. She stood, took Beth's cup to the sink, and came back with the paper bag.
“Text when you get there.”
“I will.”
“Not while you're—”
“I know.”
“I have to finish the sentence. It's in the handbook.”
Beth smiled, then put her arms around her mother. The embrace was awkward because of the bag. Jo took it from her, set it down, and held her properly.
Willa looked away.
When they separated, Jo touched Beth's cheek.
“Have a lovely time.”
“It's work.”
“Have a lovely time at work. Difficult child.”
She said it softly, affectionately, without an audience. Beth rolled her eyes, but her face didn't close.
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
Willa picked up the bag and carried it to the door. Outside, Beth's car was packed to the window line in the back, bags fitted around a small square of empty space. The case with the yellow-marked adapter was on the front seat.
“You got it all?”
“For now.”
Willa held out the food. Beth took it.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Of course.”
Willa moved toward her sister. Beth stepped in. It was brief. She smelled of soap and the cold air.
“Good luck,” Willa said.
“You too.”
Beth got in. Jo stood on the step with one hand inside her cardigan pocket. She lifted the other hand as Beth moved away. The car turned the corner and was gone.
Willa kept looking at the corner until Jo said, “You'll freeze.”
Inside, the third cup was still on the table. Jo took it up, rinsed it, and put it beside the other two.
“What time are you at the theater?” Willa asked.
“Two.”
“I've got a lesson.”
“Then go. You don't need to keep me company while I put my face on.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know. Go.”
Her mother kissed her cheek before she could make leaving into another difficult thing.
At the school, Luis was trying to find a set of keys somebody had returned to the wrong hook. He saw Willa, pointed to the yellow pad, and kept looking.
“Your dates.”
She checked them. Next week's regular pattern had changed. Nadine's cover block was there under another name.
“Any of that still open?” Willa asked.
“The block? No.”
“I thought maybe one day.”
“Filled it.”
“All right.”
He found the keys inside a drawer and looked at them with weary dislike.
“I've still got your usual Tuesday and Thursday for now. Couple of Saturday mornings if you want them.”
“Put me down.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He wrote it in. No pencil this time.
Her lesson was a refresher with a woman who had been avoiding a particular bridge for years. They weren't going over it today. They drove toward it, found the approach, pulled into a quiet street, and went around again. The woman kept trying to make Willa promise the next attempt would feel easier.
“It might,” Willa said. “We don't need it to feel easy. We need you to see what's there.”
At the end, the woman said she had expected more driving.
“You drove for most of an hour.”
“I mean farther.”
“We can do farther next time.”
The woman considered this, then nodded. Willa wrote the next route on the card.
After returning the car, Willa changed in the bathroom. The black shirt had dried properly this time. She took the extra shirt from her bag, checked it, and folded it back. Her notebook was there too, the final line written on the last page she'd used.
She didn't open it.
Luis looked up as she passed.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“Not being polite. I hope it's good.”
“So do I.”
He nodded and went back to the call he'd put on hold. Willa left while he was explaining that an instructor wasn't late until the time they'd actually arranged.
On the bus to the theater she had a seat by the window. The city was in the middle of its Friday, people carrying lunches, shopping, bags they wanted to put down. Nobody knew she was going to have a room. Nobody had to know.
Her phone buzzed. Jo: Found the shoe. Don't look.
Willa smiled and put the phone away.
She had her shirt, her notebook, a packet of mints, and the act she meant to do.
At the stage door, the man who had stopped her on the first day recognized her.
“Willa.”
“Yes.”
“Have a good one.”
He held the door without asking who she was here to see.