6
I called Hanna picturing her in my mind as the vital woman she used to be, her hair loosely curled, brown eyes bright, and smiling impishly like a little girl with a secret to share. That woman had a happy ring to her voice, the Hanna that answered the phone did not. Hers was bland, lethargic.
“Hanna, you still got Kevin’s camera, right?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. It’s been well over a year. You might have given it away or something.”
“I’m sure it’s still on his closet shelf where he left it.”
Kevin’s room hadn’t been altered at all; it was cleaned and made presentable but otherwise looked just the way he left it. Hanna refused to change it as if it was waiting for his return. Did she consider it a shrine? When I lived there I avoided it, found it too painful to enter. I tho
