Behind me, I heard Irvin’s voice. Calm and clear.
“Okay, everybody,” he said. “Who wants a burger? I’ll take over the grill. Mrs. Kowalski, I believe you wanted a cheeseburger, medium-well?”
The music kept playing. And slowly, slowly, the party started again.
We sat at her kitchen table. The same table where we’d unpacked dishes on her first day. Surrounded by boxes that were long gone now.
I made her a cup of tea. She had a whole drawer of fancy teas. I picked chamomile.
She held the cup with both hands. She didn’t drink it. She stared into it.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she said finally.
I didn’t say anything. I just waited.
“Fifteen years,” she said. “Fifteen years I was married to Mark. I thought we were happy. We had a house. A good life. Barbecues. Neighbors. Kristen and Dan Carlson. We did everything with them. Labor Day. Fourth of July. Christmas Eve.” She laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh. “Kristen was my best friend. My best friend. She helped me pick out paint colors. She held my hand when my dad died.”
