Andy opened her mouth, but there was no way to answer. She looked into Clara’s eyes, wondering who the woman saw staring back at her.
“What is it?” Clara asked. “Do you need Edwin?”
“Uh—” Andy struggled to answer. “Is he—is Edwin here?”
She looked at the area in front of the barn. “His car isn’t here.”
Andy waited.
“I just put Andrea down for a nap,” she said, as if she hadn’t two seconds ago asked if Andrea was at the hotel.
Did she mean Andrea as in Andy, or someone else?
Clara said, “Should we have some tea?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She looped her arm through Andy’s and led her back toward the farmhouse. “I have no idea why, but I was thinking about Andrew this morning. What happened to him.” She put her hand to the base of her throat. She had started to cry. “Jane, I’m so very sorry.”
“Uh—” Andy had no idea what she was talking about, but she felt a strange desire to cry, too.
Andrew? Andrea?
Clara said, “Let’s not talk about depressing things today. You’ve got enough of that going on in your life right now.” She pushed open the front door with her foot. “Now, tell me how you’ve been. Are you all right? Still having trouble sleeping?”
“Uh,” Andy said, because apparently that’s all she was capable of coming up with. “I’ve been...” She tried to think of something to say that would keep this woman talking. “What about you? What have you been up to?”
“Oh, so much. I’ve been clipping magazine photos with ideas for the nursery and working on some scrapbooks from my glory years. The worst kind of self-aggrandizement, but you know, it’s such a strange thing—I’ve forgotten most of my performances. Have you?”
“Uh...” Andy still didn’t know what the hell the woman was talking about.
Clara laughed. “I bet you remember every single one. You were always so sharp that way.” She pushed open a swinging door with her foot. “Have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”
Andy realized she was in another kitchen with another stranger who might or might not know everything about her mother.
“I think I have some cookies.” Clara started opening cupboards.
Andy took in the kitchen. The space was small, cut off from the rest of the house, and probably not much changed since it was built. The metal cabinets were painted bright teal. The countertops were made from butcher’s blocks. The appliances looked like they belonged on the set of The Partridge Family.
There was a large whiteboard on the wall by the fridge. Someone had written:
Clara: it’s Sunday. Edwin will be in town from 1–4pm. Lunch is in the fridge. Do not use the stove.
Clara turned on the stove. The starter clicked several times before the gas caught. “Chamomile?”
“Uh—sure.” Andy sat down at the table. She tried to think of some questions to ask Clara, like what year it was or who was the current president, but none of that was necessary because you don’t put notes on a board like that unless a person has memory problems.
Andy felt an almost overwhelming sadness that was quickly chased by a healthy dose of guilt, because if Clara had early-onset Alzheimer’s, then what had happened to her last week was gone, but what had happened to her thirty-one years ago was probably close to the surface.
Andy asked, “What colors were you thinking of for the nursery?”
“No pinks,” Clara insisted. “Maybe some greens and yellows?”
“That sounds pretty.” Andy tried to keep her talking. “Like the sunflowers outside.”
“Yes, exactly.” She seemed pleased. “Edwin says we’ll try as soon as this is over, but I don’t know. It seems like we should start now. I’m not getting any younger.” She put her hand to her stomach as she laughed. There was something so beautiful about the sound that Andy felt it pull at her heart.
Clara Bellamy exuded kindness. To try to trick her felt dirty.
Clara asked, “How are you feeling, though? Are you still exhausted?”
“I’m better.” Andy watched Clara pour cold water into two cups. She hadn’t heated the kettle. The flame flickered high on the stove. Andy stood up to turn it off, asking, “Do you remember how we met? I was trying to recall the details the other day.”