Chapter 9 - The Return and the Boundaries Drawn
We returned home to an unseasonably warm December thaw. The gray drizzle had cleared, leaving the valley crisp, clean, and washed of its winter grime.
When I pulled my car into the driveway of my small cottage, the porch light was on. Sitting on the top step, wrapped in an oversized knit sweater with her hair pulled back into a messy bun, was Kelsey.
She had no makeup on. Her designer coat was nowhere to be seen. In her lap, she held a flat cardboard box tied with green ribbon.
Ren looked at her through the passenger window, her small hand immediately drifting toward her coat pocket. "Is Aunt Kelsey company today?"
"Let's find out," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.
Kelsey stood up slowly as we approached the walk. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, but her posture had none of that stiff, defensive arrogance from the preschool office. She looked like the sister I used to share a bedroom with when we were girls, before country club rosters and engagement rings became the measure of our lives.
"Hi, Ren," Kelsey said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Ren stayed close to my side, her small boots planted firmly on the flagstones. "Hello, Aunt Kelsey."
Kelsey knelt down on the cold concrete. She didn't stay standing like Mom always did. She brought herself down until her eyes were level with Ren's, exactly the way I had taught my staff at Little Elm to speak to children who had been hurt.
"I brought you something," Kelsey said, holding out the flat box. "I made it myself. It took me three days because I'm not very good at it, but I wanted you to have it."
Ren looked up at me. I gave her a small, imperceptible nod.
Ren stepped forward and took the box. She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
Inside was a handmade scrapbook. On the cover, painstakingly cut from green and gold construction paper, was a large, imperfect sea lion with two deep paper pockets glued onto its belly. Inside the pockets were dozens of hand-folded paper flowers, each one inscribed with a small, handwritten note:
*“I’m sorry I was mean.”*
*“I’m sorry I didn't stand up for you.”*
*“You are never annoying.”*
*“I love your green dress.”*
Ren picked up one of the paper flowers, running her thumb over the rough, folded edges. Her sharp little eyes moved from the paper to Kelsey’s face, which was wet with silent, streaming tears.
"Your folds aren't very straight," Ren observed quietly.
"I know," Kelsey sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her oversized sweater. "I'm terrible at it. You're much better at crafts than I am."
Ren studied the paper flower for another ten seconds. Then, slowly, she reached into her own fleece jacket pocket, pulled out a small, smooth white pebble she had found in the La Jolla tide pools, and dropped it into Kelsey’s open palm.
"Sea lions like smooth rocks," Ren said simply. "You can keep that one."
Kelsey closed her fingers over the small stone, pressed it against her mouth, and let out a broken sob that was half laugh, half cry. "Thank you, Ren. Thank you so much."
"You can come inside for hot chocolate," Ren offered, turning toward the front door. "Mom makes it with the little marshmallows that don't melt right away."
Kelsey looked up at me from the ground, her eyes searching mine for permission.
May you like
"Come on inside, Kelsey," I said, unlocking the front door. "Wipe your feet. The good plates are in the cupboard, but today we’re using the mugs with the chips."
***
