My grandfather had used my full name when I got into trouble.
My mother sometimes used it when she was annoyed.
But the way Mara said it was different.
The last syllable almost disappeared.
Just like a voice I remembered from childhood.
I stared.
“How do you know my full name?”
Mara looked frightened.
For a moment, she seemed to regret asking.
Then she shook her head.
“I'm sorry.”
“Mara.”
She looked toward me.
“Do I know you?”
Her eyes filled.
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Finally, she whispered, “Maybe you used to.”
I stared.
Before I could ask another question, her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
Her expression changed.
“I'm sorry. It's work.”
I nodded automatically.
She stood.
Answered the call.
Then walked a few steps away.
I sat motionless on the bench, listening to her discuss deadlines and campaign materials.
But I wasn't thinking about her job.
I was thinking about Elmwood Street.
A white house.
A rose-covered fence.
A porch swing that creaked whenever the wind moved.
And a summer I had spent years trying not to remember.
When Mara returned, she looked apologetic.
“I have to go.”
I stood.
“Mara.”
She stopped.
I took a breath.
“How do you know my grandmother?”
Her eyes filled again.
For several seconds, she looked at me.
Then she reached into her handbag.
Her fingers touched something inside.
A photograph, though I didn't know it yet.
She hesitated.
Then withdrew her hand without taking anything out.
“Can I come back?”
I stared.
“To talk?”
She nodded.
“Please.”
I wanted answers immediately.
But there was something in her expression that stopped me.
Fear.
Hope.
And an old sadness I recognized without understanding.
I swallowed.
“All right.”
She smiled weakly.
“Thank you.”