“He keeps saying how much he’s looking forward to meeting you.” My father takes a sip of his coffee, sets the mug carefully on the table as he looks at me. “He knows how close you were to Donovan.”
My eyes land on the pies again and I sit up with a start. I have an idea.
“We should take one of those pies over to Donovan’s house,” I say. Nonchalantly, so it sounds like something nice I thought of and not a ploy to get him alone.
Dad glances at them over his shoulder. “We can ask your mother when she gets home. I’m sure she won’t mind.”
“We should do it while they’re still warm. It’s a nice gesture.” I make one last halfhearted attempt at my toast, swallow hard around the dry crust, and stand up to take my dishes to the sink. “He’s been back for two months now. And it’s the holidays.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.” He’s distracted by something on his computer. I love it when he brings the laptop to the table. He doesn’t notice as I dump half my breakfast into the sink. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“I can do it.” I turn my back so he won’t see the smile splitting my face. “I’ll go over after I brush my teeth.”
Ten minutes later, I’m standing on my front porch, holding a foil-wrapped pie and sweating profusely. I can’t believe how easy this was. Stars aligning. Fresh-baked pies. Preoccupied Dad, who won’t overthink it like Mom would. We’d still be sitting at the table, making a pro-con list for leaving a pie on the neighbor’s doorstep if she were here.
I walk down my steps and start heading over.
The day is winter-wet. The kind of damp that hangs in the air from morning to night, when old snow melts into slush under the sun and cools into ice after dark.
I walk down the driveway and the sidewalk, stopping to look at Donovan’s house from the street before walking up the path. The welcome-back debris has been cleared off the porch, but it still stands out from the others. Every other house on the street is draped in strings of twinkly lights with tasteful holiday decorations dotting the yards. The Pratt house is nothing more than dark windows and a desolate lawn. The porch sits like the empty, ominous mouth of the house, waiting to swallow up anyone who comes too close.
I keep walking.
I’m cloaked in déjà vu as my boots take me up the path to the porch. Is it déjà vu if you’re not reminded of one particular time, but thousands? Walking to Donovan’s house was a regular part of my day when I was a kid—like going to school or brushing my teeth. Still, my heart thumps faster the closer I get.
I wonder if they’re watching. If he’s watching. If he’s happy I’m coming to see him. If he wonders why I’ve waited so long. Or if he’ll refuse to talk to me, if he’s angry because he didn’t really run away and I was the one who let Chris get so close to him.
I balance the pie on the edge of the neglected wooden swing to the left of the door, take a deep breath, and push the doorbell. I lick my lips and practice a smile, wait for the familiar tread of footsteps on the way to the door. Actually, it’s weird, waiting. I barely ever had to ring the doorbell at this house before.
But I hear nothing. So I ring it again. I stare at the windows, try to look through the dark curtains to see if the Christmas tree is in its old spot. Every year in the same position with the same ornaments, winking its rainbow of lights through the glass. Now all I see is black.
Still nothing. I guess my great idea wasn’t so great after all. Maybe my mother was right when she said we should give them time. She indulged me with those first couple of phone calls after he came back, but I haven’t told her how many times I’ve tried to call since then. That I’ve been staking out his house when I’m home, hoping for even the smallest glimpse of life behind these curtains.
I place the pie on the dirty welcome mat and turn to go back home. I need a Plan C.
Then a click and a latch and:
“Theo?”
Mrs. Pratt’s voice is music.
I turn around. She stands behind the screen door, but I can’t discern any part of her except her silhouette. She is very thin, that I can tell. Her elbows stick out like bird legs in sharp points. Her head looks smooth, like it’s wrapped in a scarf.
I retrieve the pie from the mat, stand in front of her with my arms outstretched like a peace offering. “My mom made pies,” I say. “We wanted you to have one. Pecan.”
“Oh, that’s very sweet of you, honey.” She steps closer to the door but makes no move to open the screen. I think she’s wearing a bathrobe. “Your mother’s pecan is so good.”
“I . . . I wanted to say hi, too.” I bring my arms back to my chest, holding tight to the pie tin. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has. You’re almost grown up now. A beautiful girl.”
I’m glad she can see me well enough to make that statement, because she’s just a shadow to me, stuck behind the screen. The house is dark. I keep expecting Donovan to poke his head around the corner, but no. It’s silent.
But I think I heard a ghost of his mother when she spoke. A bit of that smile that always started in her eyes.
“Thank you.” I clear my throat, breathe in fast so the cold air hits the back of my throat with a sharpness. “I was also wondering . . . Is Donovan home?”
“He is, honey, but I don’t think he’s up to having visitors right now.” Her voice is kind, but generic, like she’s repeated this sentiment hundreds of times. Maybe she has, but not to someone like me.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Pratt?” My own voice is pleading. Pathetic. Desperate. “I know it sounds silly, but I just want to see him with my own eyes. It feels—it feels like he’s not really here if I don’t. Could you ask him? Please? It’s just me. I promise I won’t stay long.”
As vital as it is to talk to him, to ask him what I’m supposed to do when we go to trial in four weeks, my plea is sincere. Vague news updates and estimations from my parents aren’t enough. I need to see the Donovan who came back. I’ll feel so much better if I can just see that he’s okay now.
Mrs. Pratt sighs, but her silhouette turns away for a moment as if she’s looking behind her. Looking at someone. Considering. “Just a minute,” she says, and closes the door instead of asking me inside.
The street is empty but I feel like I’m in a one-woman show. It’s so conspicuous, standing on the Pratts’ front porch. The paparazzi and news vans have been gone for a while now, but it’s impossible to not look at the house when you leave or enter your own. I know because I do it every time, and I’ve seen my neighbors do it, too.
The pie has cooled, and my hands are cold. My fingers crinkle uncomfortably around the foil. I should have worn gloves. I should have thought of a more eloquent way to ask for Donovan.
The big door swings open again. My knees jiggle and I lock them, plant my feet firmly beneath me.
The outline of Mrs. Pratt’s head is moving back and forth. His answer is no.
“Not now, Theo. I’m sorry. He’s not ready yet.”
She really does sound sorry, so it must be him. Donovan doesn’t want to talk to me. Our history is useless.
“Don’t take it personally,” she says, running a hand over her scarf-clad head. “And please don’t give up on him. He’s getting better every day.”
I want to ask if he’ll pick up the phone if I call and he knows it’s me. If he’ll write me back if I bring over a letter or send an email, but I can’t. I simply nod because there is no good way to respond to that, nothing I can say that will ever make this better for her.
“Here’s your pie.” I hold it out awkwardly, as if she can grab it through the screen.
She unlocks the door, opens it just wide enough for me to slip it into her hands. I catch a flash of red terry cloth, a glimpse of brown skin and taupe slippers before the door shuts again.