The knock came on a Sunday evening just after sunset. That’s usually when I heard it. The front door rattled, drawing me closer. Raindrops tapped the windows on either side of the oak door, wiggling down the glass until they pooled on the sills.
I slowly turned my gaze toward the door, biting my lip, holding my breath. Waiting. I took a step closer to the door, the floor moaning under my bare feet, almost warning me of what was ahead.
Another knock. I flinched, my breath tangled in my throat. Heat flooded my chest like flames filling a fireplace. I reached my hand to the doorknob, squeezing the metal ball in my palm. With one twist, a sliver of air crept into my home. The rain’s rhythm grew louder like a heavy hum.
“Can I come in?” she said.
My jaw hung ajar. A stranger— that I knew well—stood on my stoop.
“I think I’ll come in,” she said, filling the empty space.
My words stuck to my tongue. I knew she was going to enter my home whether I granted her permission or not. Sometimes I pretended I’d invited her. Other times, I tried to forget she was even there. But she walked in, her steps heavy on the wood floor.
“You’re just in time for dinner,” I said, my voice cracking into the air.
She pulled a chair from underneath the kitchen table and sat down without a word as she propped her elbows onto the table and dropped her chin onto her fists. I swallowed hard. Then I slid my plate of pasta onto the table and took a seat. My Sunday dinner guest watched as I twisted each wad of noodles around my fork. Her silence magnified my chewing. And when my plate was almost cleared, she finally spoke.
“Do you ever wonder why you’re here?”
I slurped the lone noodle through my lips and swallowed.
“Why I’m here?”
“Yeah. What’s your purpose? Who are you, really?”
She didn’t blink as she stared into my eyes from across the table. I inhaled, ready to answer.
“Do you think anyone really cares that you’re here? You know, on this earth?” she continued.
I exhaled, sinking into my chair. Only a bite of pasta left on my plate. No other dishes on the table. Just one plate and one fork.
“I, um, well I guess I hadn’t thought about that,” I said, knowing that I, in fact, had thought about it the last time she visited. She liked to ask me the same questions in a different way. Like a game, she found new words to pose the same thought.
I don’t know how long we sat at the table. Sometimes a minute felt like an hour when she visited.
I slid my hands underneath my plate and scooted my chair back.
“Wait,” she said, pressing her palms onto the table.
I raised a brow, loosening my grip on the dish.
“Let’s sit here a while longer.”
I gulped. I didn’t want to. A homesickness stirred in my stomach, although I was tucked away in the house I’d lived in for years.
“But, I…”
“I wonder why your friend hasn’t called you lately,” she interrupted.
“I suppose she’s been busy,” I said, feeling exposed.
“Maybe…” her voice trailed, leaving breadcrumbs of doubt.
A knock on the door echoed. She jumped from her chair. Another knock. Who could that be at this hour?
“I shouldn’t be here.” She looked for an exit.
I opened my front door.
“It’s raining cats and dogs out there!”
“Miss Margaret, you’re soaked! Come in. Come in.”
I shuffled my neighbor into my house. Water squished from her boots.
“Didn’t know the rain was going to pick up like that,” she said, wiping her small poodle’s soggy fur.
“Let me get you a towel, and I’ll make some tea.”
As I entered the kitchen, I heard the back door click.
She was gone. I’d almost forgotten she was ever here.
