“It is.”
“Oh. Was it too small for you? I bet the store would let you return it.”
“Well, it is too small for me. I wear a twelve and I’m guessing you’re about a four. But I didn’t buy it, I made it. For you.”
“You . . . you made it for me,” she said. Then, as if she was sure she’d gotten it wrong, she said, “For me? Why?”
“Because I thought you’d look nice in pink. Because I thought you’d like something new. And because, for some reason, I thought you’d like owls.”
“I love owls!” Sunny exclaimed. She covered her mouth with a hand as her eyes began to fill, only to move it a moment later and say, “Look! Even the buttons are little owls!”
I grinned, excited that she was so excited. “I know! Aren’t those fun? I know it’s not very practical. You’ll probably want to wait until summer to wear it. Oh, hang on. I almost forgot.” I reached into the bottom of the shopping bag I’d brought to hold the outfit. “Here’s a sweater to layer over the dress when it gets chilly. It’s used and probably kind of big for you. But the color is perfect and I washed it so—”
Sunny lunged toward me and threw her arms around me so forcefully that I not only couldn’t finish my sentence, I dropped the bag and the sweater onto the sidewalk.
“Thank you, Grace! Thank you so much!”
She smelled like weed, and sweat, and dirt. I hugged her anyway.
“People walk past me every day and they look right through me like I don’t even exist. Or if they do look at me and I catch them, they shift their eyes away fast and pretend they weren’t, you know? You’re not like that. You look and talk to me the same way you’d talk to anybody in the neighborhood, like I belong here. But with most of them,” she said, shaking her head as she finally let go of me, “it’s like they’re embarrassed for me.”
Sunny’s eyes started to fill again and she put her fist to her mouth, pressing hard against her lips until she regained her composure.
“And I know I’m an embarrassment, I get that. And I know it’s probably my own fault. I mean, sure. I’ve got a sad story to tell. But so does everybody else, right? So why am I here?” she asked, spreading her hands and glancing over at the concrete planters, the cardboard floor, and dirty sleeping bag. “What’s wrong with me?
“Nobody wants to end up like this,” she said, then let out a short, bitter laugh. “Nobody grows up dreaming about living on the street and being an addict. I’d like to stop, but I just . . . I can’t. It’s too hard.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m not a human being, you know, a ghost you can see right through. I’m a person,” she said, pressing her fist to the middle of her chest, directly over her beating heart. “Maybe I’m a failure, and a disappointment, and an addict, but I’m still a person. I want what everybody else wants, you know? I just want—”
“To be seen,” I said, and nodded my head. “I get it, Sunny. I know.”
Chapter 24
Grace
For the first time in my life, I entertained friends in a home of my own.
Monica supplied a pan of spinach and ricotta stuffed shells with marinara for the main course, and Nan brought cold grilled asparagus and a salad of baby lettuce, the first fruits of her spring garden. Over Monica’s objections, I handled the appetizers and dessert. Maybe I couldn’t cook, but anybody can shop, and in Portland, home of artisan everything, finding fresh, delicious, gourmet food is as easy as taking a walk in the park.
On Saturday, Maisie and I went downtown to the Farmers’ Market in the Park Blocks. After wandering through the stalls, admiring piles of artfully arranged produce that was so fresh and bright and beautiful it seemed almost too pretty to eat, I bought a box of artisan crackers sprinkled with sesame and poppy seeds, three slivers of delicious, locally made cheese, and ingredients for a strawberry-rhubarb sangria recipe I’d found online. On the way home, I stopped by Salt & Straw and picked up two quarts of ice cream for dessert—Almond Brittle with Salted Chocolate Ganache and Strawberry Honey Balsamic with Black Pepper.
The evening was a great success. The meal was delicious and the sangria started things off on a festive note. I was very gratified when both Nan and Monica asked for the recipe. But most gratifying was the way they kept oohing and aahing over what I’d done to the place. It was the first time Nan had ever been to my condo, but Monica made sure she was able to appreciate the full nature of the transformation by providing a vivid description of what the place had been like before.
When she described my bedroom as looking like “a cheap dorm in a badly run youth hostel,” I said, “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.” Monica laid her hand on my arm and said, “Yes, it was, Grace. It really, really was.”
The ice cream was almost as big a hit as the decorating.
“Salt and Straw!” Monica exclaimed. “I love that place!”
Nan, who was sitting at the counter on my single stool, said, “I usually get the Honey Lavender, but this strawberry is delicious.” She put down her spoon and looked around the room. “And, really, Grace, the whole place looks fabulous.”
“Thanks,” I said, sitting down next to Monica on the love seat. “It’s still a work in progress. I’d like to find the perfect table, a nice rug, and make some fabric shades for the windows, but I should hold off on doing anything else until I find a job.
“Oh wait!” I cried,
