Page 101 of Don't Tell

"That's all right."

"I — thank you."

I mean it.

She nods.

"Make another one when you can."

I leave and sit in my car in the parking garage of the building.

I take out my phone.

I have not contacted her in four days.

I write three drafts. I delete all three. The first is too long. The second is too short. The third has the wordpleasein it twice and I cannot send a message to Suzanne with the wordpleasein it twice.

What I send is short.

Where are you? I'd like to come talk. — C

I put the phone face down on the passenger seat.

I don't expect an answer.

I drive.

I'm on the bridge when the phone buzzes. I pull over on the shoulder. I read it.

An address. Berkeley. Renée's house.

No other words.

I put the car back on the road.

The neighborhood is quiet in the small way a residential street is at 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. The house is at the end of the block. White siding. A porch with two rocking chairs. A small front garden that has been left to do whatever it wants for a season.

I park the car, sit for a minute, and get out.

I knock.

Renée opens the door.

She looks at me for a long beat. She does not say hello. Her face is the face of a woman who has been deciding, for the four days I have not contacted her cousin, whether she would let me in if I came.

"If you are here to fix this, you should know she has been doing all right without you."

"I know."

"I'm giving you that as information. I'm not asking you to do anything with it."

"Renée."

"What?"

"Thank you."

She studies me for one more second and steps aside.