Hello Natalie. Ethan says you have questions. I have questions too. We can eat cake.
I almost smiled.
She invited me to her apartment above a bakery on Alder Street.
Her front door was yellow. A ceramic sign hung beside it.
CLARA VALE
PLEASE KNOCK
DO NOT WALK IN
When she opened the door, she was wearing a red sweater over her pregnant belly. Her brown hair was tied back with a blue ribbon.
“You came,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Good. The cake is too big.”
Inside, the apartment was warm and crowded with artwork. Clay birds sat on the windowsill. Painted bowls covered two shelves. There were photographs on the cabinet near the television.
In one photograph, Clara stood beside an older man with silver hair. He wore a doctor’s coat and had one arm around her shoulders.
“My dad,” Clara said when she noticed me looking.
“He was a doctor?”
“A heart surgeon.”
She pointed at the photograph.
“He fixed children’s hearts.”
“He must have been proud of you.”
“Yes.”
Then her expression changed.
“He died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Two years ago.”
She touched the frame and then turned away.
We sat at the small kitchen table. Clara cut two uneven slices of chocolate cake.
“Your mother is worried,” she said.
“She is.”
“Your father is angry.”
“Yes.”
“Are you angry?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes, but not all the way.”
