Page 30 of Cackle

“I don’t own a television,” she says.

“Really?”

“Really,” she says. She starts to laugh, letting her head fall back. “I use a projector. Please. I love it. Well, I watch films mostly. I like movies. I don’t have channels for television. Or what is it now? Streaming? It’s all too much for me. But I’ll watch a film anytime.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“I like a good story,” she says. She leans forward. “I bet you have a very interesting story.”

“Me? No, not really.”

“No?”

“I’m boring.”

“I don’t believe that. Not for a second.”

I shrug. “I grew up in a small town in Connecticut. I went to NYU. I teach. That’s pretty much it.”

“Annie,” she says, stretching an arm out to me, “why did you want to become a teacher?”

“My mother was a teacher.”

“She’s not anymore?”

“Um, no. She died when I was really young, so . . . I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to be like her,” I say. I feel like this chair is sitting on me, not the other way around. I stand and walk over to the bookcases, begin to browse, feel the spines.

“You pursued teaching as a way to know her experience,” Sophie says.

“Yeah, maybe. I guess,” I say. I don’t talk about my mother often. Ever.

Sophie swings her legs around and pats the area beside her, an invitation for me to sit. I do, and she begins to stroke my hair.

“Is this okay?” she asks me. “You have beautiful hair.”

“Yes,” I say. She gently lets the strands run across her palm and through her fingers. The show of affection moves me. I picture one of those videos of an iceberg melting, chunks falling away into the dark ocean. I think that’s what’s happening inside my chest.

I tell her about my mother. I tell her the stories I remember, describe her from the pictures I’ve seen, the ones I keep in a thin album with pressed flowers in between the pages. I tell her about my dad, about our nonexistent relationship. I tell her about my isolated childhood. I tell her my middle school horror stories and about my high school dramas and college escapades. Then, in spite of myself, I tell her about Sam.

She leads me back into the kitchen and we take the pie out of the oven. She fans it with a cloth as it releases whorls of steam, but she does not stop listening. Not once. Not for a second.

By the time we’ve each finished a slice of pie, she knows more about me than pretty much anyone aside from Sam.

“I’ve been talking too much,” I say. “You’re sick of me.”

“Have you learned nothing this afternoon?” she asks me. “You are not boring. You’re a very, very interesting person with a very, very interesting story. I was right. That’s the thing about me, pet. I’m always right.”

“And you make a great pie.”

She winks at me.

There’s a lull in conversation, and I allow it, fearing I’ve talked too much. In the absence of my monologuing, I can hear a faint tapping. I look out the window and see fat drops of rain glimmering against the glass. The sky has gone pale. The trees sway, their leaves nodding, collapsing under the weight of water.

“It’s raining,” I say.

“Is it?” Sophie asks, turning toward the window. A flash of lightning answers her question. It thrills her. “Oh, I love a storm!”

“They make me anxious,” I say, interrupted by the boom of thunder. “I don’t like loud noises.”