“I’m taking some grub over to Old Man Blancek,” she used to say.
It was always flippant, always said with the tone that taking food to her elderly neighbor was a chore, and she always referred to it as “grub”, not “George’s favorite meal.”
As she watered the two plants George Blancek kept in his dusty house, Andrea could finally admit that the way she spoke about cooking and delivering the meals was a defense mechanism.
She never wanted to be as lonely as old George.
She made him salad, and homemade rolls, then an entree of hot dogs and pasta, cutting the hot dogs into little rosettes because the first time she did it the left side of his lip curled up in what amounted to a smile.
As soon as the second plant was sufficiently watered she realized that the plants would have to come home next door with her.
Andrea was relieved in a way. The plants were the only things of George’s that she would want, and she was glad to have something to remember him by.
George’s sister would come from Calgary to sell the house, arrange for the sale of the furniture.
Andrea would leave her a brief note that she had taken the plants to care for them, and that if his sister wanted them she was welcome to them.
As she jotted down the note to Isabelle…it was two L’,s wasn’t it?... the thought clobbered her that there was one more thing she needed to do.
The woman George wrote to once a month who never wrote back.
Andrea didn’t know the history, didn’t know if George had given her a reason to never write back.
But part of Andrea wanted to be angry at her.
She had only seen part of a letter once, really more than she had ever wanted to see. But it was addressed to: My Beloved Devanne.
You could have written back once, lady, Andrea thought.
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