“You’re right.”
“That is something you need to say to Barbara, not to me.”
The Truth About Emily
That afternoon, Anna and I visited Mrs. Patterson, who had lived on our street for more than thirty years.
If something had happened in the neighborhood, she knew about it.
When we mentioned Emily’s name, the color faded from her face.
“Emily was Barbara’s daughter,” she said. “She died eleven years ago. She was only sixteen.”
Anna reached for my hand beneath the table.
My stomach dropped.
Mrs. Patterson removed her glasses and wiped them with the edge of her blouse.
“Emily grew up in that house. Her bedroom is upstairs, behind the front window with the pale curtains.”
I pictured the bag again—the cardigan, the stuffed rabbit, the smiling girl standing beside her birthday cake.
“Barbara kept the room?” Anna asked.
“As far as I know, she locked the door after the funeral and barely went inside again.”
Mrs. Patterson told us Barbara also had a son named David.
He had been nineteen when Emily died. The following year, he left for college and never returned home.
He and Barbara exchanged occasional phone calls on birthdays and holidays, but their relationship had never recovered.
“What happened between them?” I asked.
Mrs. Patterson hesitated.
“Emily and Barbara argued the night she died. Emily stormed out of the house and began walking along the highway. A drunk driver struck her.”
Anna covered her mouth.
“David blamed Barbara,” Mrs. Patterson continued. “He believed she had driven Emily out of the house. Barbara blamed herself too.”
“Why would she be emptying the room now?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Patterson said. “But she hasn’t looked healthy lately.”
That night, I could not sleep.
I kept seeing Emily’s face.
I imagined Barbara keeping her daughter’s room closed for eleven years, unable to enter but equally unable to change anything.
Then I thought about the black bags.
“She’s erasing Emily,” I whispered.
Anna turned toward me.
“You don’t know that.”
“She’s giving everything away.”
“You saw one bag.”
“There were photographs inside.”
“You invaded her privacy to see them.”
Her voice was firmer than usual.
“What kind of mother throws away her daughter’s belongings?” I asked.
“A grieving one,” Anna replied. “A frightened one. A sick one. We don’t know what she is going through, so stop judging her as though we do.”
The Morning Barbara Fell
Two days later, I heard something strike the pavement outside.
Barbara was on one knee beside the curb.
One hand was pressed against the concrete while the other still gripped the top of a black bag.
Anna was already running toward the front door.
We hurried across the street.
Barbara tried to stand.
“I’m all right,” she insisted.
She clearly was not.
Up close, she looked much worse than I had realized. Her skin appeared pale beneath her makeup. Her face had become thin, and when her scarf slipped slightly, I saw patches where her hair had fallen out.
Beside the enormous bag, she looked frighteningly small.
“Don’t stand yet,” Anna said, kneeling beside her.
“The truck will arrive soon,” Barbara whispered.
“The bag can wait.”
“No, please. This is the last collection before Saturday.”
Anna and I helped her into the house.
Barbara’s kitchen was bright and spotless, but pill bottles stood near the sink. A calendar on the refrigerator was crowded with hospital appointments.
We settled her into a chair.
Anna brought her water.
I stood awkwardly near the doorway, the weight of what I had done pressing against my chest.
Before I could lose my courage, I spoke.
“I opened one of your bags.”
Barbara looked at me.
For a moment, anger flashed across her tired face.
Then her expression became still.
“You had no right.”
“I know. I’m deeply sorry.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think you understood that when you did it. Those were my private belongings. You had no business touching them.”
I lowered my head.
“You’re right.”
There was no excuse to offer.
Barbara’s Secret
After a long silence, Barbara looked at Anna.
“Thank you for helping me inside.”
Anna sat beside her.
“Are you ill?”
Barbara touched the edge of her scarf.
“I have stage-four ovarian cancer. The doctors believe I may have one two months left.”
The words seemed to drain every sound from the room.
I sat down without realizing I had moved.
“My son is coming home on Saturday,” Barbara continued. “David hasn’t stepped inside this house since he left eleven years ago.”
I admitted that we had spoken with Mrs. Patterson.
“We were worried,” I said. “But we had no right to pry. I’m sorry about Emily.”
Barbara looked toward the window.
“The things in the bags belonged to her,” she said. “But I’m not simply throwing everything into the garbage.”
She explained that the bags marked with green tags went to a charity serving teenage girls.
Emily’s clothing, books, and school supplies would be given to young people who needed them.
Only damaged items went into unmarked bags.
“I kept the personal things,” Barbara said. “Her necklace. Her medals. Some favorite books. Letters. Photographs.”
“I saw pictures in the bag,” I admitted.
“Those were duplicates. I had boxes filled with copies.”
Her voice trembled.
“I am not trying to throw my daughter away.”
