“Flora, Flora, wait!” your father called. “There are guests. Mallory and Adrian. From New Jersey, remember?”
The other children stopped and gaped at us, but you didn’t make eye contact.
“We’re going outside,” the oldest explained. “We’re going to the Emerald City and she’s Dorothy.”
“Flora can stay,” József said. “Someone else can be Dorothy.”
They all started protesting, listing all the reasons why this was unfair and impractical, but József chased them out the door. “Flora stays. The rest of you come back later. Half hour. Go play outside.”
You sat beside your father on the couch but still wouldn’t look at me. It was really remarkable how a blue dress and slightly longer hair shifted my entire perception of you. Just a few subtle cues and my brain did the rest of the work, flipping all the switches. You used to be a boy. Now, you were a girl.
“Flora, you look beautiful,” I said.
“Muy bonita,” Adrian said. “You remember me, too, right?”
You nodded but kept your eyes on the floor. It reminded me of meeting you for the first time, during my job interview. You were drawing on your sketch pad, refusing to make eye contact. And I had to work a little bit to coax you into a conversation. It felt like we were two strangers again, like we were starting over.
“I heard you’re starting first grade next month. Are you excited?”
You just shrugged.
“I’m starting school, too. I’m going to be a freshman in college. At Drexel University. I’m going to study education and become a kindergarten teacher.”
Your father seemed genuinely happy for me. He said, “That’s good news!” and he spoke for several minutes about studying agriculture back in Hungary, at the University of Kaposvár. And I felt like he was overcompensating, trying to talk over all the awkward silences.
So I tried a different approach.
“I brought presents.” I passed my shopping bag across the room, and I swear I’ve never seen a child look so afraid to receive gifts. You actually backed away from the bag, like you thought it might be full of snakes.
“Flora, this is good,” your father said. “Open the bag, please.”
You pulled the wrapping paper off the first package—a box of watercolor pencils in a spectrum of colors. I explained that they worked like regular pencils, but if you added a drop of water you could brush the color around, and the effect was a bit like painting. “The lady at the art store said they’re really fun. In case you want to try drawing again.”
“And beautiful colors,” your father said. “What a nice, thoughtful gift!”
You smiled and said “thank you” and then ripped the wrapping paper off the next gift—six waxy yellow fruits nestled in a box of white tissue paper.
You just stared at me, waiting for an explanation.
“Don’t you remember, Flora? They’re star fruits. From the grocery store. Remember the day we bought a star fruit?” I turned to your father. “Some days we would walk to the supermarket for Morning Activity, and I would let Flora buy anything she wanted. Any one food item, but it had to be a food we’d never tried before, and it had to cost less than five dollars. So one day she picked out a star fruit. And we thought it was incredible! It was the best thing we’d ever tasted!”
Only then did you finally start nodding, like the story sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure if you really remembered. And by this point I felt embarrassed. I wanted to take back the tote bag—I really didn’t want you to open the last gift—but it was too late. You yanked off the paper and revealed a small booklet called MALLORY’S RECIPES that I printed up at a copy shop. I had typed up the ingredients and instructions for all the desserts we’d made together—the cupcakes and the cream cheese brownies, the magic cookie bars and the homemade chocolate pudding. “In case you ever want to have them again. In case you want to try any of our old favorites.”
And you said thank you, very politely, but I could tell the book would be put away on a shelf and never touched.
Suddenly, it was painfully clear to me why your doctors didn’t want me to visit—it was because you didn’t want me to visit. You were trying to forget me. You didn’t really know what happened in Spring Brook—but you knew it was bad, you knew the subject made grown-ups uncomfortable, you knew people were happier discussing other things. So you were moving on, you were adapting to your new life. And with a stunning shock of clarity, I realized I would never be part of it.