This Place of Wonder (54)

She bustles around, turns on music with her phone, sets the kettle to boil. I can see her through the doorway, taking down a tray, teapot, cups. Napkins from the cupboard, a small plate with cookies she scavenges from somewhere. Like Meadow, like Christy, the woman Augustus left Meadow for, she’s tall. Long legged. She’s also one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in real life, and I honestly can’t blame my dad for falling for her.

“How old are you?”

Smoothing the hem of her summer-weight sweater down over her hips, she comes to the door. “Thirty-one. How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven,” I say with a short laugh.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it? I was embarrassed by how much older than me he was.”

I shrug with my left shoulder, careful not to jolt the other side. “He always liked women a lot younger than him.”

“I think it’s more that he liked young women of a certain age,” she says with a clarity that surprises me. “Meadow was only nineteen. Christy was twenty-five. At least I broke into the thirties.”

I raise my good hand, palm up. “Too soon.”

With a nod, she goes to the kitchen and returns with a tray of tea. “It’s a very light green tea, not much caffeine, lots of lemon and orange. I’m just not sure which herbs are healthy and which are not, so I thought it safer to stick with actual tea.”

“Stick with . . . ?” I ask, confused. I remember. Pregnant. “Oh. Yeah.”

“When are you due?”

I give a short laugh. “No idea. I just found out, by accident.”

She smiles. It’s genuine, and her teeth are not at all even, which brings her beauty into the realm of manageable. Her energy soothes me. “You’ve had quite a day.”

“Quite a year, all in all.”

“I guess so.” She pours tea into a mug and picks up the honey. “Tell me when.” I let her go way longer than most people would, but she doesn’t react at all.

When we both have mugs, she curls up in the chair catty-corner to me. Her dark braid falls over her shoulder. I say, “So, you’ve been hiding in that awful little room off the garage?”

“It’s not awful. I cleaned it up, so it’s fine. Nice window, good breeze.”

“Meadow kicked you out even knowing you didn’t have any money?”

“I didn’t tell her that part. I mean, she doesn’t owe me anything.”

I sip the tea and it’s mainly hot water with a faint tea flavor, sharp lemon, and a thick taste of honey. It’s delicious. “She never got over him,” I say by way of apology.

“He never got over her, either.” She blinks hard, and I see that her eyes are too shiny. “‘Love Story of the Century,’ right?” She laughs a little and wipes a tear off her face.

She’s referring to an article published in People, a two-page spread with amazing photos of the two of them at the height of their adoration of each other, which could have been any year between 1993 and 2013. I was so proud of them, felt sorry for other kids. “I cut that article out and pasted it into my journal,” I say.

“It must have really been something to be their child. You and Rory both.” She sips her tea, head gently inclined. “I mean, that’s part of the love story, isn’t it, that each of them adopted the other’s child?”

“I guess so.” A jagged edge of pain rips upward from my wrist and I yelp, spilling a little tea onto the couch. “Damn.”

Norah materializes in front of me, taking the tea, pressing a cloth napkin to the spill. “Will you let me help you get more comfortable? I think it might be better to elevate this arm more, get it above your heart.”

It hurts so much I want to moan or scream, so I nod, blinking back tears.

“Stand up for a minute and hold your arm above your shoulder. Let me set things up a little.”

I do as I’m told, feeling the pinch of my jeans around my waist and the poke of an underwire in a boob. It occurs to me that I’m not going to be able to change clothes without some help, and again I feel embarrassed and sad. “You don’t have to do all of this. I guess I need more help than I thought. I should call my sister or Meadow. One of them will come.”

Efficiently, Norah picks up and punches the pillows on the overstuffed couch, brushing them off and shaking out the knitted blanket. “It’s pretty late. You can always call them tomorrow.”

I narrow my eyes. “This feels like the setup of a bad horror movie. You’re going to kill me and make off with all the silver.”

She laughs. “Yep, that’s me, thief of vintage shit.”

“Well,” I say, thinking of my dad, “if the shoe fits . . .”

Her smile flashes as the joke comes home. “He was pretty vintage, all right.” She shoves the oversize ottoman in front of the corner. “Sit.”

“Before I do, will you help me with my clothes?”

“Ah. Is that why you wanted your mom instead of me? I get it. Do you want me to call her?”

I shake my head. “It’ll be at least an hour before she can get here, and I really need this bra off now.”

“How about some silk pajamas? I bet we’re close to the same size, and I have some very pretty ones.”