CHAPTER 28: LAUREL AT THE DOOR
Laurel arrived on a clear Saturday in late October.
I saw her rental car turn onto Alder Street and felt my knees weaken.
She parked behind my truck and sat there for a minute with both hands on the steering wheel.
Then she stepped out.
Her hair had gone dark again after years of gray, and there were fine lines around her eyes.
She looked older than the girl in my memories and unmistakably like my sister.
I walked down the steps before she reached the porch.
We held each other without speaking.
She smelled faintly of cedar soap.
I remembered the scent from the towels she used to keep in our shared bathroom.
She finally pulled away and looked at the house.
“You kept the fence,” she said.
“It’s falling apart,” I answered.
“I know.”
She laughed, and we both began crying again.
Inside, I showed her the kitchen, the repaired roof, and the watchmaking bench.
She paused outside our father’s bedroom.
“Can we skip that one today?” she asked.
“Of course.”
We walked into her old room instead.
The glow-in-the-dark stars were still on the ceiling.
Laurel pressed a hand over her mouth.
“You didn’t paint them over.
”
“I wasn’t sure whether you’d want me to.”
She stood beneath the faded constellations.
“I used to think I’d come back and find everything exactly where I left it.”
“Some things are the same,” I said.
“Most things aren’t.”
She nodded.
“That’s probably how it should be.”
We spent the afternoon making dinner together.
We argued mildly about whether the sauce needed more salt.
For the first time in twenty-two years, the argument was about something that didn’t matter.
It felt like the beginning of a life.
