Chapter 15 - The Door We Left Open
The brownstone was quiet when we got back. Not the quiet of the ballroom, where everyone had gone silent to watch. This was a different kind. The radiator clicked against the wall. Outside, a bus hissed on the avenue and then it was gone.
Evelyn had taken off her coat but she still held her small purse in both hands like she didn't know where to put it. Mom stood by the window with her arms crossed, not because she was cold. I sat on the couch between them with my boots off, my feet tucked under me. The hardwood floor was warm from the heat downstairs. It didn't shine like marble. It had scuffs near the doorway where the floorboards had worn down.
Evelyn cleared her throat. She set her purse down on the little table by the door and took out a folded piece of paper. It was white and creased, not fancy hotel paper.
"I talked to Helen at the diner on Lex," she said to Mom. Her voice was lower than it had been at the hotel. She breathed before each sentence. "She needs a morning shift. Seven to two. It's not charity. She said she'd pay the same as anyone else and she'll work around school drop-off. You can say no."
Mom looked at the paper but didn't take it right away.
Evelyn unfolded it and smoothed it on the coffee table. I could see her handwriting, neat and slanted. "I also called about a transitional apartment near the park. One bedroom, month to month. I would cover the first three months. After that, you decide. There's a paragraph at the bottom." She pointed, and her finger trembled a little. "It says you can decline either part at any time. No conditions. I signed it."
Mom sat down slowly on the other end of the couch. She read the paper all the way through. Then she read it again.
"Why written?" Mom asked.
"So you know I mean it," Evelyn said. "So you don't have to worry I'm keeping score."
Mom's shoulders dropped a fraction. She reached for the pen Evelyn had set down.
"I'll try the diner," she said. Her voice was steady. "Just temporary. I'm still looking in Queens. I found two places near the elementary school by the library that I can afford if I have steady hours."
"That's good," Evelyn said. She didn't move closer. She stayed in the chair across from us.
Mom wrote her name at the bottom and then slid the paper back. "And we can do dinners. Weekly. Here or at your place, when you want. But we stay here. She stays with me."
Evelyn nodded right away. "Yes. Weekly is perfect. Not living together. Just dinner. Whenever she wants to see me, or you."
I felt my eyes getting heavy. The radiator kept clicking. Mom's hand found mine on the couch cushion and squeezed.
Evelyn looked at me. "Does that sound okay, sweetheart?"
I nodded. My breathing had slowed down. I didn't have to hold it anymore.
Some time after that, I must have tipped over. I remembered holding the little photograph from the locket - the one Evelyn had let me keep, the one of her holding Mom when Mom was tiny. It was creased on the edges now from my fingers. The couch smelled like Mom's shampoo and the cleaner Evelyn used on the table.
I pretended to be asleep even when I wasn't, because I liked hearing them talk when they thought I couldn't.
Mom lifted my legs gently and tucked the blanket over me. It wasn't my old thin one. It was Evelyn's, the soft gray one with the dark edge she'd brought from her apartment. It smelled like her perfume, light and clean.
"She's out," Mom whispered.
"I can go," Evelyn whispered back. "So you two can rest."
"You don't have to," Mom said. There was a pause. "You can stay for a while. If you want."
I heard Evelyn's chair move. She didn't sit on the couch. She stood in the doorway to the little hall, just watching. I could feel her there without opening my eyes. Her breathing was soft.
"She's holding the picture so tight," Evelyn said, very quietly.
"She hasn't let go of it since you gave it to her," Mom said, and she smoothed my hair back from my forehead. Her hand was warm.
Later, when I did open my eyes a crack, Evelyn was still in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her. She wasn't trying to come closer or fix anything. She was just waiting, letting Mom be the one to cover me, to decide when to turn the little lamp off.
I thought about the necklace. Mom wore it now. I'd seen it when she leaned over me, the teardrop blue stone resting against her shirt, the gold chain catching the light from the lamp. It didn't belong on the marble floor anymore where everyone could stare at it. It belonged on her, where it was quiet.
May you like
The floor under the couch wasn't marble. It was just wood, scuffed and warm, and my blanket was tucked around me, and Mom's hand was on my shoulder. The door to the brownstone was closed but not locked, and outside the hall was empty and dark and not scary, because I knew who was on each side of it.
I let go a little and fell all the way asleep.
