Andrea moved around the room, a house plant clutched in one hand, as she snatched up fuzzy sweaters and faded blue jeans. She tossed another pair onto the bed in a growing pile of clothes. A smaller stack of items – a small pewter cat, an oversized framed picture – lay beside the much larger pile. She didn’t seem to pay it much attention, and didn’t add to it.

She made one more sweep through the room. Her dark hair spilled out behind her, and she paused for a moment to yank it into a lopsided ponytail. She ran her hands over her black pants and paused in front of the piles she had created. She looked briefly toward the bedside clock before hefting the hard-sided suit case onto the already crowded bed.

Andrea pushed the smaller pile out of the way, the pewter cat made a hollow sound as it hit the floor, the picture frame a sharper one. She didn’t check to see if the glass had broken. She began to make her way through the larger pile, sweater after sweater folded neatly and placed in the suitcase. Then she started with the blue jeans; the suitcase was already full when she started trying to put in shoes and underwear. She turned the suitcase over and began packing again, clothes joining the cat and picture frame on the ground.

It took her two more tries before she seemed satisfied with what she had managed to squeeze in the small suitcase and finally snapped it shut. One good yank and it had thundered to the floor, knocking over the house plant she had set there. Dirt pooled on the faded carpet; but she didn’t stop to study it. She dragged the suitcase through it, smearing the dirt into the carpet.

She struggled with the suitcase, stopping, switching hands, using both hands, as she dragged it out of the bedroom. The front door banged shut behind her. She glances one way and then the next, as if there might be someone standing there, watching her, and then continued her struggle. The luggage clattered down the cement steps; the silence was almost eerie when she paused at the base of the steep steps.
The bus stop wasn’t far, and after a few more minutes of struggling with the luggage, Andrea was waiting beneath the blue sign. She pulled at her watch as she paced back and forth. When the bus arrived she thrust the luggage into the driver’s hands and watched him easily swing it into the open cavity at its base.
The dingy interior didn’t seem to bother her; she didn’t seem to notice or care about the grays and browns that encompassed her. She stared out the window until the city was well behind her.

A woman met her at the door. Her hair was too short for the shape of her face, and her lipstick too orange.

“ Hi, mom.” Andrea stood beside her suitcase, awkward, as she stared through the screen door at her mother.

There was hardly a moment’s hesitation and the door swung open. The older woman pulled Andrea into her arms, her overly dyed hair orange and dull next to Andrea’s onyx hair.

“ I’ve been waiting for you,” she says in the way only mothers can, and helped her daughter pull the luggage into the house. It moved easily with the strength of the two women.

Every day, Andrea did the same thing. She would watch the television, read a book, amble around the house and touch the things her mother had on display. She would sit by the window and watch the sun set and the neighborhood children and grandchildren play in the street even though they had been told to stay on the laws. Their hair would glint in the fading sun, and their little voices would slip easily through the window panes and echo in her mother’s little house.

One afternoon she was doing just that, a mug of hot tea in her hand, when there was a hard knock at the door. She didn’t answer it at first. She didn’t even make a move toward the door, or acknowledge that there had been a sound. Another long moment went by, followed by another sharp knock, before she stood up, leaving her mug on the window sill.

“ Coming,” she whispered, but to no one in particular. Her socked feet made little sound on the recently cleaned wooden floors, and she almost floated toward the door. She paused in front of it, and then her hand was on the door knob, and the door was swinging open. The sunlight spilled in from behind the man, and filtered through the screen door. He was dark and almost formless as the light hit the floor and scattered, speckling the planks of wood.

“Hi,” he said. His voice was heavy, and tender, and held all the parts of an apology, but she didn’t seem to hear.

“Hi.” Her voice was flat, and hollow.

They stared at one another for a moment. He shuffled his feet on the front step.

“ I came by to –”

She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “I know why you came by.”

He seemed to expect her to say more; she didn’t.

“You need to go, Scott.”

“What? But, I just got here.”

She nodded. “I know. Now, you need to go.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she had already pushed the door forward, walking away before it had fully closed. She sat back down in front of the window to watch the children, the tea still steaming, and didn’t respond to the constant knocking.