"It's the eyes that stick with you," Mrs. McGillivray said. "I saw a little girl the other day, over at the pharmacy, and her eyes were just like his are, that same light blue, and I felt like he was right there looking at me." Her elbow worked, scrubbing; one curl bobbed over her nose, escaped from her kerchief. "And the voice, sometimes," she added.
"Let me dry," Christine said, scooping up a clean dishtowel.
"I can't stop hearing him. I lie awake listening."
"I know," she said.
Teacup after teacup the woman scoured and racked, clean and dripping, among the candles. Her hands were coarse and wiry with country life, the same knowing toughness that showed in her face, under the sallow light of the kitchen. She had always been that way, strange and aloof and unknown, frightening. Only Donny could thrive in her house. He was undaunted and relaxed, and he loved her.
It seemed strange to see her here again, in the same old kitchen, ageless. She felt like a little girl.
"I have always been proud of him," she was saying. "He's special. He knew what he was doing, you know. He was a very smart young man." Her eyes were cast down into the soapy water, unmoving, while her hands labored on. Her shadow fell misshapen over the suds.
"I miss him," Christine said quietly. Mrs. McGillivray shook her head just slightly.
"The way he looked up there last night," she murmured. "Like an angel." She closed her eyes for just a moment, and straightened. "The Lord taketh what the Lord taketh away," she said aloud. "Tomorrow He will return to us sevenfold what we lost yesterday."
Christine started to speak and then caught herself, frowning. Was that right? How long had it been?
Look at her, she thought. Look how grave and austere she has become, and how strong. What a vast, sad enchantment her child's death has wrought on her Christine thought; she is great now, she is powerful, she is merciful and holy. I can see her clear as daylight; see how she thinks of her son now, and raises her open eyes to Heaven, unflinching.
Christine, Dreaming