One Tuesday, Barbara drove away, I presumed for work, before the truck arrived.
She wore a blue blouse and a scarf wrapped high around her neck despite the warm weather.
Two bags remained at the curb.
Anna was reading at the kitchen table.
“Don’t,” she said without looking up.
“I did not say anything.”
“You are thinking loudly.”
“I am going to check the mail.”
“The mail arrives at three.”
I crossed the street anyway.
The larger bag had been tied in a careful double knot.
I knew I had no right to touch it.
I opened it anyway. Instead of trash, I found several clothes belonging to a girl.
Every hair on my arms stood up as I immediately thought that maybe my neighbor was keeping someone in her house.
I saw a pink cardigan, folded neatly with the sleeves crossed over the front.
Under it was a denim jacket with a butterfly patch, two pairs of jeans, and sneakers with the laces still tied.
There were school folders, costume jewelry, paperback novels, and a stuffed rabbit missing one ear.
At the bottom sat three wooden picture frames.
The glass had been removed for safety, but the photographs remained.
The same girl appeared in all three.
In one, she stood on a beach with the wind blowing her hair across her face.
In another, she sat at a piano wearing a white dress.
In the last one, she leaned toward a birthday cake with 16 candles.
The name Emily was written on the back.
I retied the bag, but I could not reproduce the neat double knot. Mine looked clumsy and obvious.
When I returned home, Anna took one look at me.
“There were a girl’s things inside.”
“Clothes, schoolwork, and pictures.”
Anna’s expression hardened.
“That does not mean anything terrible happened.”
“Barbara has no child living there.”
“Maybe she has kept a child locked indoors. I have heard stranger things before.”
“Then why is she giving everything away?”
“The better question is why you opened her trash bag.”
“That is not an apology to Barbara.”
