“Karen! Hello!” She was only in her mid-thirties but had an older, housewifely air — one of those women who for whatever reason decide to get the jump on middle age in terms of their fashion choices and the cultivation of a generally frowsy demeanour. She struck me as a bake sale facilitator; a Brownie leader; an organizer of elaborate children’s birthday parties featuring exotically and imaginatively curated loot bags. She wore unfashionable, owly glasses and had a smile too big for her face.

She started talking and didn’t stop as she lingered in the foyer, removing her shoes, asking where she might place her jacket, noting again the new autumnal chill in the air, the changing leaves, pivoting seamlessly into: That’s a lovely burning bush tree in your yard, by the way! And wouldn’t it just be spectacular come late September? And what a lovely neighbourhood too! And were we sad to be leaving it? And did Kelli and I grow up here? And so forth. In this way, Eleanor Mallon managed to fill any awkward conversational gaps completely during the time it took me to put her jacket aside and lead her up the stairs to the living room and introduce her to Kelli.

She leaned over and offered Kelli her hand, which Kelli was pleased to shake.

“Malla,” Kelli repeated after Eleanor introduced herself.

“Eleanor Mallon,” repeated Eleanor.

“’Nor Malla,” muttered Kelli.

“Kelli puts her own spin on people’s names,” I explained.

Eleanor straightened up, smiling. “You can certainly call me Nora if you like, Kelli. My hubby calls me Nora!”

“Kelli knows ’Nor,” said Kelli.

Eleanor sat in the cushioned rocking chair with the noisy springs, playing it cool. I wondered how much experience she’d had with the developmentally handicapped. Kelli wasn’t like a lot of other people in her situation — at least as far as I knew. She had her own way of handling conversation, for example. She might exchange a few words with you and then disappear into rocking and muttering whenever the spirit so moved her. It occurred to me that if Eleanor Mallon didn’t understand this about Kelli, she might note it down as some kind of problem — she might assume Kelli was unduly upset or traumatized. As I took a seat across from the Adult Protection worker, I felt my face begin to perspire and I knew I was psyching myself out. I tried to remember Trevor’s soothing monologue in the truck on the way back from the fish and chip place. They don’t wanna take people away. I jumped up again to offer Eleanor Mallon a cup of tea, which she graciously accepted, although she insisted she didn’t need any, it was only if I had the tea already made and I was not to go to any special trouble just for her.

“It’s already made,” I assured her, because of course it was. Just as the cookies were already sitting on the kitchen table, arrayed on a plate. The house was fragrant with their buttered cinnamon smell, as I had risen early to ensure they were fresh-baked, remembering Jessica’s advice. Of course, the cookie tactic was no longer about selling the house. It was about the same thing all the re-Irene-ification of the place the night before had been about. Selling, to Eleanor Mallon, the home.