Almost every day after kindergarten, N and I hang around while she has a snack or plays with the other kids. The adults make small talk — the weather, the weekend, some new little discovery.
People wander past, mostly tourists looking for a famous attraction nearby. A handful of locals too, regulars with dogs or grocery bags. And then, maybe once every couple of weeks, there is this woman who walks by. A strange-looking creature. Small, with very short hair, thick glasses, clean but outdated clothes. A lost look on her face, as if she’s not quite sure where she is, or why children are running around her. But she is always happy to see them. She tries to get their attention, though they always run away.
Just the other day, I happened to be alone with N when the woman appeared out of nowhere. She had a cigarette in her hand now, smoking in a maladroit way. N glanced at her, then stared — studying the woman’s face, the cigarette, the wide, toothless mouth. I could already see how the fabric of scary dreams was beginning to weave itself together: a bit of this, a bit of that.
The woman tried to smile at her, tried to engage, to have an exchange, but N wouldn’t have it.
I want to go away, she said, and started running back toward the kindergarten.
OK. I’ll be with you in a minute, I called after her, hoping she could still hear me.
Embarrassed, I exchanged a few glances with the woman, and she smiled at me.
Kids, she said.
I was packing up our things and was just about to leave when she said:
I was at the hospital today.
She paused for a second. I looked at her, not sure what was coming.
She exhaled a long plume of smoke.
Cancer. That’s what I have.
