When the doorbell rings, I open the front door and Celia’s standing there. It’s a relief that it’s not someone coming to express condolences. We only just heard. How awful. *insert casserole*
“Hey,” Celia says.
“Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“Not much. Do you live nearby?” She doesn’t ride my bus, that’s for sure.
“Not really.” She points at the side of our garage, where a gray-and-white ten-speed leans against the siding. She names the next subdivision over. “I babysit for a kid down the street from you, so I was passing by.”
“Oh. How did you know where I live?”
She tips her head, like she’s searching for an answer. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “Must have seen you in the yard or something.”
“Oh.”
“I made this for you.” She thrusts a newsprint-encased package about the size of a softball at me. “It’s fragile.”
“Thanks.” I pull off the paper. It’s a mug, slightly less wonky than the previous ones.
“I’m making one for everyone,” she says. “Yours was the first to turn out somewhat right.”
The mug is carved and painted with an image of Sheila’s face. It really looks like her, too. And it’s modeled after Sheila’s senior yearbook photo, as opposed to the one we published with her obituary, which strikes me as thoughtful.
“It’s really nice,” I tell her, and I mean it. “Thanks.”
“Do you want to go for a walk or something?” she suggests. “We don’t have to, you know, talk or anything.”
That works. It’s not like I have anything better to do. “Sure.”
She waits on the porch while I take the mug up to my bedroom. I tug on my tennis shoes and pull the door shut behind me.