Clara’s lips pressed together.
Brooke stepped closer. “I know you asked me for help once, and I never came.”
Clara looked at her.
The kitchen light was harsh above them. It showed every line on Clara’s face, every trace of sleeplessness beneath her eyes.
“When?” Clara asked.
“Three years ago.”
“You said you were busy.”
“I was.”
“You said Marcus needed you.”
“He did.”
“You said you would call.”
“I should have.”
Clara leaned against the counter.
Brooke’s voice broke. “You had pneumonia.”
“I recovered.”
“You were alone.”
“Marcus came.”
“After you called him.”
“Yes.”
“I did not know.”
“You did not ask.”
Brooke nodded, accepting the wound without trying to decorate it.
“I thought if I stayed away, I would not have to choose between you and my mother.”
“You chose.”
“I know.”
For a while, only the refrigerator hummed.
Then Clara opened a drawer and removed the grocery card. She placed it on the counter between them.
Brooke looked at it.
“That was not my idea,” she said.
“I know.”
“She told me you were proud. She said you would be insulted if I gave you too much.”
Clara touched the card with one finger.
“What did you want to give me?”
Brooke began to cry harder. “A scarf. I bought one, but my mother said you would think it was pity. She said two dollars would be funny.”
Clara closed her eyes.
The cruelty had been planned. That knowledge was almost worse than the insult itself.
“Where is the scarf?”
“In my car.”
“Bring it in tomorrow.”
Brooke nodded.
