“Where did you hear that?”
“I knew the family well. Emily used to water my plants when I traveled. I attended the funeral.”
“Barbara also has a son, David. He was 19 when Emily died. He left for college the following year and has never come back.”
“Did they stop speaking?” Anna asked.
“Not completely. They exchange short calls at Christmas and birthdays. But he never came home.”
“Emily died after leaving the house during an argument with Barbara. A drunk driver hit her while she was walking along the highway. David blamed his mother for pushing her out the door. Barbara blamed herself too.”
“Why is she clearing the room now?”
“I don’t know,” Patterson said. “But Barbara has not looked well.”
That night, I lay awake picturing the photographs inside that bag.
I thought about Barbara keeping Emily’s room untouched for 11 years, then suddenly sending pieces of it away.
“She is erasing her,” I said.
“She is giving away everything.”
“And you invaded her privacy to do it.”
Her voice was sharper than usual.
“What kind of mother throws away her dead daughter’s belongings?”
“A grieving one. We do not know what is going on with her, so let’s not judge.”
The next morning, Barbara waved from her driveway.
I pretended not to see her.
“You are judging her because you are ashamed of what she is doing,” she said that evening.
“I am just trying to figure out what is going on.”
“No. You are turning her into a bad person without even knowing what is going on.”
Two mornings later, I heard a dull thump outside.
Barbara was on one knee beside the curb. One hand was spread against the pavement.
The other still gripped the top of a trash bag.
Anna was already moving toward the door.
We ran across the street.
Up close, her skin had a gray cast beneath her makeup.
Her scarf had slipped, revealing patches of hair loss.
She looked smaller than the bag beside her.
“Do not stand yet,” Anna said, kneeling.
“The truck will be here soon,” Barbara whispered.
“No. Please. It is the last pickup before Saturday.”
Anna and I helped her into the house.
Her kitchen was bright and spotless, but pill bottles stood beside the sink.
A calendar on the refrigerator was crowded with medical appointments.
We seated her at the table.
Anna brought water while I stood awkwardly near the doorway.
Barbara looked at me, and I couldn’t help but blurt out.
“I opened one of the bags.”
A flash of anger passed over her face before she resumed her normal look.
“No, I don’t think you did know. You have no business going through my private items.”
Barbara studied me for a moment, then looked at Anna.
“Thank you for helping me in.”
Anna sat beside her. “Are you sick?”
Barbara touched the edge of her scarf.
“Stage-four ovarian cancer. The doctors think I have one or two months.”
