I had a pee and washed my hands—the smell of Imperial Leather soap took me back thirty years as surely as my Space Hopper box—and pulled the chain to flush. As I unhooked the bathroom door, I heard a knock downstairs, and again voices that I couldn’t quite make out, but whose sounds were of pleased surprise and “Come in, come in.”
I descended the stairs slowly and peered over the banister, gasped when I saw the back of my coat, the little blue and green one, me as a child, and the back of my mother’s head, chestnut hair shining.
I paused where I stood. Em had come alive with chatter, and I could hear her insistence that my mother and little Faye have something to eat and drink. By the time I had followed them into the living room, they were all seated comfortably and I was an intruder, one person too many for this room. I smiled, but I felt like I didn’t know how to do that properly anymore. When I looked at my mother, I had to look away, because it was going to be either a quick glance or I would be a deer caught in her headlights.
“I’m just leaving,” I said, trying to keep it nonchalant.
“Ah, yes, our reporter,” Em said, puffing her bosom out.
“Stay,” said Henry, though Em bristled slightly. I looked into his eyes, and whether or not he saw pain and desperation in mine, I’ll never know. But he said it again: “Stay. You’ve had a rough day,” and he gently touched my head, then gripped my upper arms. “Have another cuppa. You can meet our charming neighbors.” He beckoned me to sit down and then left the room.
“What’s your name?” little Faye asked, sitting wide-eyed, upright, and overconfident like some kind of hippie Shirley Temple.
“Faye,” I said, the word like glue in my mouth, because I realized I should have thought to change it when I was halfway through my single syllable. I could have been a Dorothy.
“Me too! That’s my name,” said Faye junior, bouncing up and down.
Em took little Faye by the hand, possessively, I thought. “Do you want one of these?” Em said, gesturing toward the little silver Christmas tree hung with foil-wrapped chocolate bells. Little Faye jumped up, and she and Em were kept busy for a few moments.
My mother stretched her hand out toward me, and her bracelets slid up her arm, jingling. “I’m Jeanie,” she said.
I opened my mouth to speak, and there was not a drop of moisture to lubricate my words. “Faye,” I said again, the word still so sticky it could barely leave my lips. I watched my hand get closer to my mother’s with the same awareness as if I were reaching out to touch an electric fence. But she didn’t seem to notice; she briefly gripped my hand and shook it.
“Great name,” she said, smiling and nodding at little me in the corner by the Christmas tree. “What paper do you work for?”
“Oh, the Gazette, it’s like a supplement in the free paper,” I said, flustered from the lingering sensation of my mother’s hand on mine. Jeanie frowned slightly, and thankfully lost interest instantly.
“I only read novels, poetry, and cookbooks, I’m afraid,” she said with a dismissive, easy smile. “Never newspapers.”
Em swung little Faye up onto her hip and sat down in a chair holding the child in her lap. I saw me as a child lean into the comfort of Em’s embrace, licking chocolate from her tiny fingers, the other hand absentmindedly rubbing the fabric of Em’s housecoat. I had no recollection of this happening to me and stared at the interaction between them as though it were video evidence in a trial of my memories. I know I shouldn’t expect to remember everything, I know that I don’t, and yet how could I not have some notion of it, especially when I could see how much this closeness meant to Em. She loved me, even then, and as she hadn’t been able to have children of her own, I could see what a gift I had been to her.
Henry dispelled my reverie, returning with a cotton bag that clinked and handing it to Jeanie. “Jam,” he said, as she opened the handles and peered inside, “and some homemade bread, and there’s some of Em’s scones in there too.”
“What’s this?” Jeanie said, pulling a bottle of something a little way out of the bag.
“Crème de menthe,” Em said. “We don’t need it, I don’t even know why we’ve got it, just thought you might like it.”
“Em and Henry always give us lots of treats,” said Jeanie to me, raising an eyebrow.
“We worry about you, love, that’s all,” said Em.
“We’re very grateful,” said Jeanie. “But I don’t know how I’m going to get through that crème de menthe on my own.”
“Maybe it could go into a recipe, mint creams or something?” suggested Em.
“I’ll put it to good use, don’t worry,” said Jeanie with a wink in my direction. She seemed to feel a connection with me, merely because we were the closest pair—age-wise—in the room. I could see she thought of Henry and Em as old, and wanted to distance herself from them; be in a gang with me.
“Faye’s interviewed us about bowling. She was asking us about what there is for people to do round here,” Henry said.
“Nothing is the easy answer to that,” said Jeanie, looking pointedly at me. “All we can do is go to the park, or play in the garden. You got kids?”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. Your grandchildren, I thought.
“Then you know, there’s nothing to do. Unless you’re like Em and Henry, older and got no kids, then it’s bowling, and what else, Henry? Darts, right? If you’re rich, there’s golf.”
“Gardening,” said Henry.
“Crosswords,” said Em.
“Oh, please!” Jeanie said, laughing at them good-naturedly. And they took it well.
“One day when you’re as old as we are, you’ll love those things,” said Henry, smiling indulgently at her.
“Never!” She drained her cup. “I’m sorry, but we really can’t stay, we just wanted to return some of your jars,” said Jeanie, standing up.
Em looked disappointed. But Henry put his hand on her shoulder, and went to give Jeanie a hug.
“I really need to go too,” I said, determined to stick with my mother. “Thanks for everything.” I shook Henry’s hand, and Em’s. “I’ll let you know when it’s going to be in the paper,” I added, holding my notes in the air.
“Which way are you?” Jeanie asked as we neared the end of the path leading from Em and Henry’s door.
I waited until we all turned left and said, “Same way as you.”
* * *
IT WAS MIDMORNING and the sun was weak as we walked slowly in the direction of Jeanie’s house. Little Faye got out her paddle and ball again and ambled dreamily a few paces behind us, trying to get a rally of consecutive bounces going. I could hear her counting but was tuned in to my mother’s patter about Em and Henry. Jeanie swung the bag languorously, the weight of it giving a satisfying long arc as she strolled. I almost wondered if she would let it go at the height of its curve. I heard a rumble of traffic in the distance, and started to feel uncomfortable that I couldn’t see little Faye all the time. If it were my children, I would be holding their hands, or at least have them within grabbing distance at all times, and so I found myself turning to look at my younger self frequently, and certainly whenever I heard a car.