“What happened?”
“Nothing I could see.”
Claire nodded.
“Do you regret fostering me?”
Margaret stared at her.
“What kind of question is that?”
Claire smiled faintly.
“A damaged-person question.”
Margaret reached across the table.
Claire let her take her hand.
“No.”
Margaret squeezed it.
“I regret that I could not protect you from what happened next.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
“But I do not regret one day you were here.”
Claire looked at their hands.
Then she said, “I remember you brushing my hair.”
Margaret smiled.
“You screamed every time I hit a tangle.”
“You pulled.”
“I was gentle.”
“You were a menace.”
They both laughed.
By Christmas, the house had changed again.
Daniel had installed brighter lights over the stairs.
Margaret kept a weekly pill organizer by the sink.
Claire came over on Wednesdays.
Not to supervise.
At least that was what both women claimed.
They cooked.
Sometimes they argued.
Claire still thought Margaret used too much salt.
Margaret still thought Claire ruined green beans by steaming them.
One Wednesday, Claire arrived carrying the blue plate.
Margaret looked at it.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you bring it wrapped like a body?”
Claire set it down carefully.
The chip had spread.
