Page 101 of The Surprise
“I want to give some of the crocheted things away, but it’s hard for me.”
I nod like that makes perfect sense. Who knows? Maybe it does. I’ve never crocheted anything. Maybe if I did, I’d hold onto it with a kung-fu grip.
“It’s apparently common for people who have lost a child.”
And now I feel like a giant jerk. “You lost a child?”
She blinks. “You didn’t know?”
I’m not sureanyoneknows. She’s lived here since the beginning of time, and she has no friends. How would any of us know anything about her? I wonder how often I’ve assumed people knew something about me and that they were judging me for it, when really people had no idea and weren’t thinking about me at all.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I feel silly saying anything about it, now. I’m seventy-one next month. I lost Stanley almost forty-five years ago, and he was only three.”
Now I’m crying again, which is really embarrassing. “I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t be sorry, dear. I didn’t care about that pot.”
I shake my head. “I mean for all the crying. But, also about the pot.”
“I have too many pots already, and too many plants. I do know that.” She pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit.
I do.
“Again, you can talk to me if you want, and if you don’t, that’s fine too.”
If I tell this little old woman who lost her child at three years old what’s going on in my life, she’ll probably crochet me a scarlet letter and sew it to my sparkly heart shirt. The thought makes me laugh.
“I’m hipper than you might think, if that’s why you’re worried.” She nods. “I’ve seenSex and the City.”
Now I’m really laughing. I sound unhinged, to be honest. I think that’s a show people watched like, twenty years ago or more. It’s so funny that she’s using that to say she’s hip. It’ll probably be onNick at Nightsoon.
“I’m just upset because I had to hurt someone I care about.” There. Maybe that vague piece of non-information will scare her off.
She pats my hand right as the teapot starts to scream. She hops up pretty quick for an older lady, and a moment later, she’s pouring steaming water onto a tea bag in a little mug. “Here, dear. There’s not much in this world that tea won’t help.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but it seems rude to argue with her in her own home. She sits with me for almost half an hour while we both sip our tea, and she never asks me for more information. She doesn’t ask me for anything at all.
But when I finally stand up, she says, “If you don’t have anything else you need to do, I could use a hand with some things in my garden.”
I’m not sure whether it’s true, or whether she’s just lonely, but I feel like I can’t tell her no. A few moments later, I’m helping her lift and haul peat moss, and then I’m helping her shovel compost into a wheelbarrow and transfer it into pots. It’s not really a very clean task, but it feels good to be outside, in the sunshine, getting dirty.
It feels a lot better than I expect it to feel.
“Sometimes just moving helps.” She smiles.
That’s when I realize thatshedidn’t need help. She thought thatIdid.
And she was right.
This time, when I start to cry, words just pour out with the tears. An hour later, I’ve told her all of it, even the worst part—that I slept with Jackson.
“I’m not even sure why I did it,” I say. “I didn’t want to—I don’t even like—I didn’t mean—”
We’re sitting on an iron bench behind her house, and she pats my back and clucks. “There, there. It’s going to be fine. At least you’re not pregnant.”
“Did you hear me?” I shake my head. “It was my first time.”
