Damn These Uncontrollable Tears

Chapter 3: The Blue House

I got to Evelyn Hart's house ten minutes early and sat in my car until I was sure I could walk to the door without crying.

The house stood at the end of Harbor Lane, its blue paint faded by salt air. A wind chime tapped against the porch railing. Through the front window, I could see boxes and a stack of books.

I had come because I'd told Camille I would. That was all. I wasn't there to become a friend or a volunteer or some kind of substitute daughter. I was there to be an extra pair of hands.

Camille opened the door before I knocked.

"You came."

"I said I would."

"That's rarer than it should be."

Inside, the house looked lived in rather than staged. A pair of glasses rested beside a crossword puzzle. A cardigan hung over the back of a chair. The kitchen clock ticked loudly enough that I kept glancing at it.

Camille handed me a marker and a roll of packing tape.

"Books to donate. Kitchen things to keep. Papers we don't know what to do with." She gestured toward three boxes. "I'm trying to keep everything from turning into one giant pile."

"I can work with a system."

"Good. Mom loved systems. She just made one up whenever she felt like it."

We started in the living room. I sorted books by condition and genre while Camille checked the shelves for photographs. Every so often, she would stop and tell me something about the book in her hand.

"Mom bought this one at a yard sale because she liked the title."

"She read all of them?"

"Most. She had a habit of reading the end first."

I smiled. "That should be illegal."

"She said the middle was still worth it."

It was easier to listen to stories about Evelyn than to ask about the funeral. I could tell Camille wanted to talk, but she didn't force the subject. I appreciated that.

We found an envelope of old letters inside a desk drawer. Some were from Evelyn's late husband, Daniel, written during his years working on commercial fishing boats. Others were grocery lists and cards from neighbors.

Camille held up one letter. "I don't recognize this handwriting."

"Could it be from a student?"

"Maybe." She turned the envelope over. "There's no return address."

She set it aside.

At lunchtime, we ate sandwiches on paper plates. Camille called her brother, who was coming by on Sunday to take the furniture. She didn't mention me. I kept wondering whether the family had discussed the crying stranger.

I wondered what they said about me.

Camille caught me looking at the untouched half of my sandwich.

"You can ask."

"Ask what?"

"What you think I'm thinking."

"I don't know what you're thinking."

"Exactly."

I traced the edge of the plate. "Do you regret inviting me?"

"No."

"Your family might."

"Then they can tell me."

"You don't have to defend me."

"I'm not defending you. I'm telling you what I decided."

I looked at her. "Why does it matter that you decided?"

"Because this is my mother's house. Because I can choose who helps me in it. Because you're here and you've been kind."

I lowered my eyes. I was used to being grateful for any space I was given. I wasn't used to someone saying I belonged because she had chosen to make room.

After lunch, we sorted through a cupboard in the hall. Behind a stack of old magazines, we found a photograph of Evelyn standing outside the Harbor Literacy Center. She was younger, maybe in her thirties, holding a pair of scissors beside a ribbon. There were children around her, all squinting into the sun.

Camille looked at the photo for a long time.

"I didn't know she had helped start the center," she said.

"Maybe it was before you were born."

"Probably." She touched the corner of the frame. "I thought I knew everything about her."

I didn't say that no one knew everything about anyone. I didn't want to turn her grief into a lesson.

Camille leaned the frame against the wall. "She liked people. She liked being useful. I used to think she said yes to everyone because she couldn't say no."

"Maybe she liked saying yes."

"Maybe."

I thought of Owen. I thought of the times I had agreed to spend holidays with his family when I wanted to stay home, because I didn't want him to think I was difficult. Maybe there was a difference between wanting to give and being afraid to refuse.

At the end of the hour, I started packing my coat.

"You can stay longer," Camille said.

"I don't want to overstep."

"You're allowed to be here without asking permission every five minutes."

I paused. "I'm trying to learn that."

"Me too."

I left after another half hour, with a box of books to deliver to the literacy center and a promise to come back on Sunday. On the drive home, I stopped at a traffic light and caught sight of the funeral program in the passenger seat.

The photo showed Evelyn smiling beside a stack of books. I thought of the way her daughter had whispered goodbye. I thought of the space beside Camille on the pew, empty until I sat down.

When I reached my apartment, Owen was waiting in the hallway.

His face lifted when he saw me. "I've been trying to reach you."

"I saw the messages."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm not."

He glanced at the book box. "Where have you been?"

"Helping someone."

"Someone?"

I took the key from my pocket. "Her mother died."

Owen looked at me for a moment. "You went to a stranger's funeral?"

"Yes."

"That's not like you."

"You don't know what's like me anymore."

He stepped back. I unlocked the door.

"I'm not here to argue," he said. "I just want to talk."

"Not today."

"Lena, please."

My eyes started to sting. I pressed my thumb against the key and focused on the cold metal.

"I'll call you," I said.

I went inside and shut the door before he could answer.