“She moved away the next summer.” I looked at him and realized it sounded odd, never seeing or speaking to an aunt again. “And now she’s gone . . .” I let it linger, hoping the natural conclusion would end the questions.
Alex reached for the package and popped it open.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled one out. “Eat.”
“Alex, no. You have to buy that.”
“Clearly. Put it in your mouth.”
I obeyed and put the whole cookie in my mouth, but I couldn’t bite it. There was something sacred about that memory—all wrapped up in an Oreo.
“Chew.” He stepped toward me.
I bit down once.
“I’m going to find salsa. Catch up when you finish.” He dropped the package in his cart and walked away.
I stood there slowly crunching on that silly cookie that almost had me bawling. I concentrate so much on the pain that I suspect I miss the good: the Chapmans, a few saintly social workers, foster parents who cared, the library, Father John, Hannah, Kyle, Ashley, the Muirs, Alex . . . the list goes on. There have been people and events, even small ones that slip past my memory like a shadow, that have been good and whole and right in my life. How can I focus on those? Writing that article with Kyle started the process, and standing in that aisle tonight, eating a cookie, forced another step.
I grabbed a second package, tore it open, and ate two more. Three Oreos. When I caught up with Alex and dropped the package into his cart, he raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I like that about him. Sometimes words shouldn’t be spoken.
We finished up with the oddest mix of stuff in his cart. Nothing that one could make for dinner, but seriously good snack food. Alex more closely resembles Cole Barker than I thought.
We then went to a dive called Meier’s Tavern for burgers and tater tots, which made me laugh because we’d just spent over an hour at a grocery store. After that—the Muirs’ house. I hopped out, thanked him, and headed for the door.
“Wait a sec.” Alex got out and rummaged through the grocery bags. He handed me one package of Oreos.
“Only one?”
“You’re not the only one who needs Oreos, Sam.”
There was nothing to say. I reached up on my toes and kissed him on the cheek. I think I surprised him, Mr. Knightley, but I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I simply waved and headed to the house.
Now I feel sick. There’s a reason I don’t eat sweets. No willpower. I watched some Downton Abbeyepisodes and ate the entire package—loving every bite.
Sleep well, Mr. Knightley . . .
Sam
JULY 14
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Just a quick note . . . I’ve got two articles due to McDermott this morning, and then I’m heading across town to conduct an interview. I’m floored that McDermott’s trusting me. I’m interviewing an aide to Judge Rayburn about upcoming child welfare legislation.
“The interview is tomorrow at 11 a.m. in the Federal Building, Rayburn’s suite. Get your notes organized tonight . . .” He noticed my wide eyes. “Sam, you can do this. Your voice is strong and this is your field. Trust yourself.”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Take full notes, write it up. If you want my help, I’m here. But I suspect you’ll get there on your own.”
So last night I prepared my notes, and I’m ready. But—also last night—I had a conversation with Alex that won’t leave me. It was brief, but special. And it was the first time he’s called me.
He called around eleven. “You still up?”
“I’m outlining interview questions. What’s up?”
