Chapter 7: The Woman in Green at School
The day after Christmas Dad had to return the borrowed chairs to the church. He said it like it was an errand and I knew it was an excuse to get out of the apartment where Mom kept checking her phone.
It was cold enough that the parking lot was still iced over in the shadows. The church lot was mostly empty except for a few cars near the side entrance. Dad parked and left the heat running and told me I could stay in the car if I wanted. I said I'd help. The cream envelope was in his jacket pocket again. I saw the corner of it when he zipped his coat.
We carried the first two folding chairs to the side door. They were the same gray metal kind. I stared at the rubber feet so I didn't have to think about the one by the French doors.
She was coming out as we were going in.
The woman in green. I recognized her hair first, pulled up the same way it had been at the table, and the dark green dress under her long winter coat. She had a camera bag over her shoulder. She stopped when she saw us and her face did that quick, soft thing people do when they don't know if they should smile.
"Oh," she said. "Hi. I was just dropping off the photos."
Dad set his chairs down against the brick wall. "Hey," he said. He didn't sound surprised. "How are you?"
"Good, good." She looked at me. "Hi, honey. Did Santa find you okay at home?"
I nodded. My hands were cold even in my mittens.
She shifted her bag. "I actually took those pictures of the kids by the tree. The ones in the red plaid? I made prints for everyone. Your grandma asked me to." She said it like she was offering something. "I have yours, if you want. You looked so pretty in that red dress."
Dad didn't answer right away. He glanced at me and then back at her. "That's kind of you," he said.
She took a breath and the mediator tone came in, that gentle, practiced voice adults use when they think they're helping. "I know last night was... I know it felt awkward at the end there. Your mom was upset you left. She didn't mean for it to feel like that."
The wind moved across the parking lot and I watched a plastic cup roll against the curb.
"She didn't mean what, exactly?" Dad asked. His voice stayed even.
The woman in green tucked her hair behind her ear. "The seating. I think she just ran out of room and she was trying to make it work for everyone. You know how she gets about the table looking perfect."
I felt my chest get tight. Dad had told me we would not fight for a place. I waited.
Dad bent down a little so he was closer to my height. "Do you want to ask her what you want to ask?" he said to me quietly.
I didn't know I wanted to ask anything until he said it. I looked up at her. "Was my chair already there when you got there?" I asked. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to.
She blinked. "What?"
"The gray chair," I said. "By the trash can."
She stared at me for a second too long. Then she looked at Dad, then back at me, and her cheeks turned pink from the cold or from something else.
"Honey," she said, and she knelt a little, not all the way. "Your grandma asked me to help set up. Before anyone came. She said to put a folding chair near the doors in case... in case we needed extra seating. And the trash can was already there."
Dad didn't move. He just stood with his hands in his coat pockets. I could see the edge of the envelope again.
"So it was there before we got there," I said. It wasn't really a question.
She nodded once, quick. "She told my husband and me it was for... she said you might be more comfortable with a little space. We didn't know what she meant. We should have said something."
The word comfortable hung in the cold air. I thought about the name card that said Grandma in the gold rimmed place setting and how my folding chair had no card at all.
"Oh," I said.
Dad put his hand on my shoulder. His thumb pressed lightly through my coat. "Thank you for telling her the truth," he said to the woman in green. He wasn't thanking her the way people usually thank someone. He was just naming what happened.
She stood up and hugged her coat tighter around her. "I have the photos in my car. I printed them this morning. The kids looked so happy together." She said it like she wanted to fix it with paper and ink. "I can bring them by your apartment?"
"That's okay," Dad said. "We're good."
She nodded like she understood she wasn't supposed to push. She started to walk toward her car, then stopped. "He didn't know either," she said, looking back. "My husband. He just helped me carry the table leaves. We didn't realize until you walked in."
I watched her unlock her car. She didn't look at us again. She drove away slowly over the ice, her brake lights flashing at the stop sign.
Dad and I stood there with the two gray chairs against the wall. The church door was locked. We didn't need to go in.
"You heard that?" Dad asked me. Not testing me. Just checking.
"Yeah," I said. My eyes watered from the wind but I didn't wipe them.
"It wasn't a mistake," he said. "Not the chair. Not where it was."
"I know," I said.
May you like
He zipped his coat up higher. The envelope crinkled softly when he moved. "You good to walk back?"
I slipped my mittened hand into his. The parking lot was empty now except for our car with the heat still running. I understood then it hadn't just been Grandma. Other people had carried that chair in and placed it where she told them to and then sat down at the table anyway.
