“You pursued teaching as a way to know her experience,” Sophie says.
“Yeah, maybe. I guess,” I say. I don’t talk about my mother often. Ever.
Sophie swings her legs around and pats the area beside her, an invitation for me to sit. I do, and she begins to stroke my hair.
“Is this okay?” she asks me. “You have beautiful hair.”
“Yes,” I say. She gently lets the strands run across her palm and through her fingers. The show of affection moves me. I picture one of those videos of an iceberg melting, chunks falling away into the dark ocean. I think that’s what’s happening inside my chest.
I tell her about my mother. I tell her the stories I remember, describe her from the pictures I’ve seen, the ones I keep in a thin album with pressed flowers in between the pages. I tell her about my dad, about our nonexistent relationship. I tell her about my isolated childhood. I tell her my middle school horror stories and about my high school dramas and college escapades. Then, in spite of myself, I tell her about Sam.
She leads me back into the kitchen and we take the pie out of the oven. She fans it with a cloth as it releases whorls of steam, but she does not stop listening. Not once. Not for a second.
By the time we’ve each finished a slice of pie, she knows more about me than pretty much anyone aside from Sam.
“I’ve been talking too much,” I say. “You’re sick of me.”
“Have you learned nothing this afternoon?” she asks me. “You are not boring. You’re a very, very interesting person with a very, very interesting story. I was right. That’s the thing about me, pet. I’m always right.”
“And you make a great pie.”
She winks at me.
There’s a lull in conversation, and I allow it, fearing I’ve talked too much. In the absence of my monologuing, I can hear a faint tapping. I look out the window and see fat drops of rain glimmering against the glass. The sky has gone pale. The trees sway, their leaves nodding, collapsing under the weight of water.
“It’s raining,” I say.
“Is it?” Sophie asks, turning toward the window. A flash of lightning answers her question. It thrills her. “Oh, I love a storm!”
“They make me anxious,” I say, interrupted by the boom of thunder. “I don’t like loud noises.”
She stands up and takes my plate. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here with me.”
She walks over to the sink and sets our plates down on top of all of the other dirty dishes. Mixing bowls, spoons, measuring cups.
“I can help you with those,” I offer.
“Nonsense,” she says. “You’re my guest. Also, darling, I don’t want you walking home in this.”
“Yeah,” I say. I’m assuming she’ll be able to drive me back to my apartment. Should I ask?
“Before you think I’m incredibly rude, I can’t offer you a ride because I don’t have a car. Or a license. Which is ridiculous, I know. But here we are.”
“Did you grow up in the city?” I ask. I met a few people at NYU who’d lived in the city their whole lives and never planned on leaving. A license was unnecessary, a car a nuisance.
“No,” she says. “I’ve never been. I don’t get out much, really. I lead a very simple life.”
“Yeah,” I say, gesturing to the room around us. “Simple life. Simple house.”
She rolls her eyes. “You judge me.”
“I don’t!”
“Someone else built this house. A man with too much money and too much ego. He lost it all and left it to rot. I merely saved something beautiful,” she says, “though I do have a fondness for beautiful things, especially ones in need of saving.”
She begins to fill the kettle. “So, Annie, you should stay here tonight. Imagine the muddy mess it will be out there. To navigate it in a storm or after dark—no. No, no. I’ll make up my favorite guest room.”
Is she asking me to sleep over?
There’s a hesitation, a small anxious creature inside me pulling on my veins, using my stomach as a trampoline. All I’ve done for the past week is lament being alone, and now I’ve made a new friend, who’s offering for me to spend the night in her mansion. Why am I not more excited? Why am I experiencing this strange trepidation?
“What is it?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s really nice of you to offer, but I don’t want to impose.”
“I invited you,” she says. “It’ll be fun. I’ll open a bottle of wine. We can eat cheese and bread and read or watch a film. Or I can make up the room and you can sleep. Or take a bath! I made some new soaps and candles.”