Page 74 of The Last to Let Go
But... there. Now I remember, as my fingers grasp for the small box of paper clips. I folded it up into a tiny square and stuck it inside. I dump the entire box out on my bedroom floor; my fingers sift through the pile quickly. I unfold it and read the words again:
Caroline. Just in case.
She answers on the first ring, like she has been waiting for my call all this time.
We arranged to meet halfway between where she lives and where I live. She offered to pick me up, but I told her no. I wish I’d let her, though, because it’s pouring down cold rain now.
I go into the diner, at the corner where she said it would be. I shake my umbrella off at the door and lower the hood from my face. She’s already here, waiting with a cup of coffee in a booth in the corner, wearing a fuzzy sweater and corduroys.
“You made it,” she says as I approach. “Thought the rain might keep you.”
“It was okay,” I tell her, sliding into the seat opposite her. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she echoes. “I ordered you a water—I didn’t know what you’d want.”
“Thank you.” I unwrap the plastic straw from its paper wrapper so that I have something to do with my hands.
“I’m glad you called. I wasn’t sure you would,” she admits.
“Me neither,” I tell her.
She starts laughing, followed once again by a bout of hard coughing.
“Are you okay?” I push my glass of water across the table toward her.
Still smiling, she shakes her head and holds her hand up, sliding the glass back to me. “I’m fine,” she’s finally able to say after the coughing subsides.
“You’re probably wondering why I called,” I begin, though the whole way here I wasn’t able to answer that question myself.
“There doesn’t have to be a reason—just coffee is reason enough.” She waves her hand in the air, getting the attention of the waitress, who comes directly over to the table.
“What are you drinking, hon?” the waitress asks me.
“Just coffee,” I answer.
We wait until she brings it back before either of us says anything else. It’s a comfortable kind of silence, like I remember from our conversations at the courthouse.
Caroline watches as I doctor it up with lots of cream and sugar, anything to dilute the actual coffee taste. She grins at the number of sugar packets I pour in. “I’m actually not much of a coffee drinker,” I explain.
“I didn’t used to be when I was your age either.”
More silence.
“I really liked that book you gave me,” I say. “Thanks again.”
“It’s special, so I’m glad you liked it.”
Another silence.
“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.
“Definitely.” She takes a sip of her coffee and looks me straight in the eye, unflinching. “Life’s too short for anything else.”
“You don’t seem at all like the person I’ve heard stories about.”
She nods as if she understands everything I’ve heard about her. “I don’t claim to have been the best person in my day. I really wasn’t a very good mother, I’ll tell you that much. Allison saw a lot that I’m not proud of—I can’t defend myself for any of that.” She takes another short sip. “Except to say that people change.”
I want to believe her, but I’m skeptical.
