They talked about small things because the large things were already sitting among them and did not need constant introduction. Evelyn described the harbor. Grace described the leaking roof at the old house in Cincinnati. Nora showed a dress she was altering, and Evelyn asked about the seam with genuine interest rather than searching for a symbol in every stitch.
At lunch, Evelyn reached for the salt at the same moment Nora did.
Their hands stopped together.
Both laughed.
Then both cried, embarrassed by how little it took.
June passed tissues without comment.
In the afternoon, Grace took Maisie to the library so Nora and Evelyn could have an hour alone. Maisie made Nora promise to call if anyone decided to go somewhere. Nora agreed. Evelyn listened without making the request strange.
When the door closed, mother and daughter sat at the kitchen table.
The square of fabric lay between them.
Evelyn touched the bluebird with one finger.
“I made it while waiting for you.”
Nora nodded.
“I used to think you'd be impatient. You moved so much. Arthur said you were building furniture in there.”
Nora laughed softly.
“I still can't sit still if I'm worried.”
Evelyn looked at the sewing machine.
“I see that.”
There was a long silence.
Then Nora asked, “Did you see me?”
“At first. For a moment.”
“What did I look like?”
Evelyn smiled through tears.
“Angry. You looked offended by the whole arrangement.”
Nora laughed, and the laugh broke halfway through.
“They took you to be checked,” Evelyn continued. “I was exhausted. They told me to rest. Later, everything changed. People spoke softly. Nobody would answer the same question twice in the same way.”
She clasped her hands.
“I asked to see you again. They said no. There were reasons. So many reasons, all spoken like they were protecting me from something I couldn't survive.”
“What did you do after?”
“I went to a friend's apartment. I wrote to Arthur. I went to the house. I tried to get records, but I didn't know what to request or who could help. I was told arrangements had been made. I was told there was nothing more to see.”
Nora looked at the cloth.
“Did they give you a place? A grave?”
“No. A letter about a private arrangement. A place for ashes, they said. I couldn't bear to go at first. Later, when I asked, the clinic had changed offices and nobody could find anything.”
Her voice sharpened.
“By then I was tired of being the girl who couldn't accept a tragedy. That's how they made it sound. As if asking where my baby was meant I was refusing to get well.”
Nora reached across the table.
Evelyn stared at their joined hands.
“I don't want you feeling responsible for making this better.”
“I know.”
“You have your own life.”
“I know.”
“I just need to look at you sometimes.”
Nora nodded, tears moving down her face.
“That's all right.”
Evelyn looked at the photograph of Eli on the shelf.
“Tell me about him.”
Nora turned toward it.
For the next half hour, she spoke about her husband. Not the accident first. The way he sang while washing dishes. The way he bought the wrong kind of flour and argued that flour should be less confusing. The way he painted a bicycle pink and let their daughter believe the dog had ordered highlights.
Evelyn listened.
She did not say she wished she had met him until Nora did.
“I wish you'd known him.”
“So do I.”
At four, Arthur arrived only after Nora texted that it was all right.
He stopped at the door when he saw Evelyn.
For a moment, the years seemed to stand between them like people in a crowded station.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello, Arthur.”
Nora watched them with a strange ache. She had imagined parents as a pair, a matched set of people who existed before her. These two were not a set anymore. They were separate lives connected by something done to both of them.
Arthur asked whether he could come in.
Nora stepped aside.
They sat in the living room, not together on the couch but in different chairs. Nobody tried to repair the arrangement. Evelyn asked about his work. He asked about her paintings. Their politeness was not empty. It was the narrow bridge available to them that day.
When he noticed the bluebird fabric on the table, he looked at Evelyn.
“You finished it.”
“I did.”
“I remember you taking the wing out.”
She smiled sadly.
“You told me the bird wouldn't complain.”
“I was wrong about many things.”
“Not that one.”