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.”
I looked at her.
Clara ate a bite of cake.
She did not speak like someone trying to impress me. Her sentences were short. She paused before answering difficult questions. Sometimes she repeated part of what I said to make sure she understood.
But she understood more than people expected.
“Why are you marrying Ethan?” I asked.
She looked down at her plate.
“I love him.”
The answer came quickly.
“Does he love you?”
She became quiet.
“Clara?”
“He stays.”
“That isn’t exactly what I asked.”
“He comes when I call. He listens. He does not talk to me like I am a child.”
“Has he said he loves you?”
