“And I’ll embroider it.” She opens the bottom drawer of her dresser and pulls out a large flowered tin. She lifts the lid, shows me skeins of brightly colored floss crammed inside. “This was my mother’s, you know.” She picks up a handful of colors, closes her eyes, holds them against her cheek.

“Oh, that will be beautiful, Rose. That will be a wonderful thing to do.”

“Yes, that will be a wonderful thing to do.”

“But right now, you really need to eat breakfast. Your driver will be here soon.”

She nods, stretches out the baggy sleeve of her T-shirt to wipe her nose.

“Can you make yourself some peanut butter toast and eat a banana? And drink some milk and orange juice, too?”

“Yes, I will.”

I leave her standing over the toaster, peering down into it. She has to make sure the roaches are out before she puts the bread in.

• • •

Back in the car, I check my watch. I’m a good forty minutes behind. Then I remember where I’m going at two.

I look in the rearview mirror, smooth down the cowlick at the side of my head. Then I try to remember the last time I saw Chip Reardon.

It wasn’t at graduation—the day before, he’d broken an ankle in three places in a touch football game, and he couldn’t come. I remember he got a standing ovation anyway when they called his name.

So it must have been the last day of high school when I last saw him. June 8, 1968. Chip and I had English together, sixth period. Diann was in that class, too. We all sat in the back—Diann in front of Chip, me across from him. On that day, near the end of the last class, the teacher was reading us some T. S. Eliot, droning on and on, just killing time before the bell.