Finch darts out from behind the cabin, her cat a flash of white, bouncing in her arms.
“My daughter,” I say, grabbing two grocery bags. “Finch. This is Jake’s sister, sugar. Marie.”
She extends her hand to Finch, who stares at it, then holds her cat up for Marie to look at.
“This is Walt Whitman.”
“A fine name for a fine cat. May I take a closer look inside?”
“Sure.” Finch leaps onto the porch and opens the door. “This is our cabin,” she says, and the truth is, I cringe a little when she says that, because it’s not our cabin. Not really. It’s ours but not ours, and Marie’s presence makes me aware of that, in a way that Jake’s never did: how the ground on which we’ve built this life is borrowed.
Inside, Marie and me fumble around the small kitchen, bumping elbows and grazing hips, and finally I just tell her maybe it’d be best to let me put everything away since I know where things go. I try to say it nicely. She’s just brought us supplies, after all. Finch offers her a tour of the place, and Marie trails behind, Walt Whitman cradled across her chest. The various skulls, some of which she has found herself and some of which are from Scotland, all piled in a wooden crate in the corner. On the windowsills, shards of mussel shells from the river, the black insides of which glimmer in the sun. Also fossils. An old metal spoon she found once, in the middle of the woods. Pressed inside the pages of books we rarely read, red and yellow leaves from the fall. Queen Anne’s lace from summer, violets from spring. Dried lavender tied together with twine, hanging from the ceiling.
Finch begins a barrage of questions. Where do you live? （Jake’s house, for now, in Michigan.） What does the house look like? （Tan brick with a front porch.） Do you have a job? （Librarian.） What’s your favorite food? （Chocolate.） Do you have children? （No.） Do you own a bicycle? （Yes, a red one.） What’s your favorite book? （Too many to list.） Do you have friends? （A few.）
“I have a new friend,” Finch says, reaching out and rubbing Walt Whitman behind the ears. “She has long red hair and lives in our woods.”
“Supper,” I say, giving Finch a look. I ladle the stew into bowls and set them on the table.
“Have you ever been to a store, Marie?” Finch asks, pulling out her chair.
“Of course. Many times.” Marie frowns and glances in my direction. “Have you?”
“Once, I think. I was a baby, so I don’t remember.”
“Finch,” I say, seeing that Marie is about to ask another question, “let’s take a break on the interview and eat.”
Finch makes her bear face and slides into her seat.
“I remember these bowls,” Marie says, running her finger along the rim of hers.
“Did you live here with Jake?” Finch asks.
“When I was little, yes. I don’t remember much, honestly. But I do remember the bowls for some reason. Smells wonderful,” Marie says, taking a deep breath of the steam. “I’m famished.”
Finch stares at Marie. “You look like Jake,” she says.
“You think so?”
“Only prettier.”
Marie clears her throat, takes a drink. “Well, I have nicer hair, at least.” She fluffs her curls and laughs, her brown eyes bright and brimming. Jake was balding, even when I first met him, and he was the type of guy who just kept it shaved, once it started.
Finch giggles. “You definitely have nicer hair.” She stirs her stew. “Did he say anything about us before he died? Did he give you a message for me?”
Marie looks at me and swallows, then looks back at Finch. “As a matter of fact, he did. He told me there was one thing he needed me to do for him: to bring supplies to his very dear friends. He also said that there was a lovely young lady to whom I should send his warm regards. He always wanted children, and he thought of you as a daughter. I’m sure of that.”
“I loved him.”
Marie reaches out and covers Finch’s hand with her own. “We all did.”
Walt Whitman pokes his little white face up between my thighs and I shoo him away.
“Cooper and Finch, if it’s not too much of an inconvenience, I’ll stay the night because, well, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I could find my way out of here in the dark. I’m also well aware that there are no hotels close by. First thing tomorrow, I’ll be on my way. Does that seem like a suitable arrangement to you?”
“You can stay forever if you want,” Finch says.