school without her. And she and Jacinta are tight. Where I get attitude and eye rolling, my mother gets giggles and secrets.”
“You must be busy, working two jobs and going to school,” I say.
Kelly smiles as the light turns green. “I suppose. But I’ve always worked, so I’m used to it. I have the early morning shift at the coffee shop, take classes during the day, and do catering events for Tom at nights and on the weekends. I’m saving money so Jacinta and I can get our own place. Right now, we live with my mother and it’s crowded.”
I bite my lip, wishing I could tell her not to be in such a hurry to leave.
* * *
Kelly’s house is in a neighborhood of small, one-story houses so similar to my mother’s in Pennsylvania, I could squint my eyes and believe I was back home again. When we pull into the driveway, she turns to me and says, “Come in and meet my family.”
I hesitate, knowing I should stay in the car. There’s a difference between being one of many black-and-white-clad servers at an event and shimmying up to Kelly’s family with a name and a handshake. But it would be strange if I refused.
And I’m overwhelmed by how much I want to go inside. After so many days of being alone, I want to sit in someone’s kitchen and talk about art. “I know a bit about art history,” I finally say. “Maybe I could help.”
“We can use all the help we can get,” Kelly says.
It’s exactly as I imagined it would be. The living room is spare, just a couch, a reclining chair, and a television. Through an open doorway is a small kitchen and eating area where two girls sit, hunched over the table. Beyond the living room is a short hallway that probably leads to a couple small bedrooms and a bathroom. My mother’s house had the same feel to it, frayed and scarred around the edges, but polished to a high shine. I can imagine the three of them here in the evenings, each of them in her favorite spot. Kelly’s mother in the armchair, Kelly and Jacinta on either end of the couch, their legs in a tangle the way Violet and I used to watch TV.
An older woman stands at the counter, chopping vegetables, while on the stove, pots simmer, the air thick with the smell of rosemary and sage.
One of the girls looks up as we enter. “Sorry, Mom,” she says.
Kelly leads me into the kitchen and says, “Let’s practice some manners, Jacinta. This is Eva.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Jacinta smiles, and I can see Kelly in the set of her brown eyes and the sharp structure of her cheekbones. “Nice to meet you too.”
“And her friend, Mel.”
The other girl raises her hand in a half wave, then turns to Kelly and says, “Thanks for coming back, Kelly.”
Kelly squeezes her shoulder and says, “Only for you, Mel.”
The older woman chimes in from the counter. “I’m sorry I didn’t check in with her before you left.” She shoots a look at Jacinta. “She told me she had everything she needed.”
Kelly turns to me and says, “Eva, this is my mother, Marilyn.”
I brace myself, waiting for a flash of something in her eyes, a flicker of a question, knowing this is how it will always be when I meet someone new. But she smiles and wipes her hands on a towel before shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I’m struck by the power of belief. How easily it transfers from one person to another. Kelly believes I’m Eva, and now her mother does too, without question. I look between them, their bond as familiar as an old, favorite coat. It wraps around me, making me want to sit down at the table and never leave. “Tell me what you’ve chosen for your project,” I say to the girls.
Jacinta slides her laptop so I can see two paintings side by side on the screen. Jasper Johns’s False Start and Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Boy and Dog in a Johnnypump.
“Great choices,” I say. “Basquiat started on the streets of New York as a graffiti artist, commenting on the social injustices he saw and experienced. He’s responsible for graffiti being the legitimate art form we know it to be today.”
“I think we read something about that. But it’s all kind of blending together,” Jacinta says. “This is the project from hell.”
“Jacinta,” Marilyn warns.
“Sorry, Grandma. It’s just…look how