And beneath it, pinned to the paper, was a strip of clear crinkly grocery-store plastic, and a small white card.
The card was folded once. It was smudged and a little water-stained. On the front, in blue ballpoint pen, in handwriting I would know anywhere, in handwriting I’d seen on birthday cards and grocery lists and the back of a cereal box when he was six, it said:
For the prettiest girl on the block.
At the bottom of the card, there was a date. Penciled underneath, in Marta’s slanted hand.
March 14.
The day Sam died.
Chapter Five: For the Prettiest Girl on the Block
I don’t remember sitting down.
I just remember that suddenly I was on the floor of that little room with my back against the doorframe, and Marta was kneeling beside me, holding a glass of water I didn’t remember her getting.
“Drink,” she said. “Please. Just a little.”
I took the glass. My hands were shaking so hard the water splashed on my coat.
“That’s his handwriting,” I said.
“Yes.”
“That’s my son’s handwriting. That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said. To me.”
“I know,” Marta whispered.
“He brought those to you.” I looked up at the shadow box. At the sunflower in the center. At the little card. “He brought you sunflowers. The day he died. He wrote you a card.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” My voice cracked. “Why would my son bring you flowers? Who are you?”
Marta sat down on the floor across from me. It took her a long time. Her knees cracked. She leaned her back against the shelves, under all those white cloths and all those names, and folded her hands in her lap.
She looked very small. Very tired.
“Your son fixed my pipes,” she said.
I stared at her.
“Two years ago,” she said. “In the winter. The pipe under my kitchen sink froze and burst. Water everywhere. I called three plumbers. Two didn’t answer. One said he would come in a week and it would cost four hundred dollars just to look.”
