“Where are you going?”
“To finish it somewhere else.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Pearl picked up her purse.
As she turned away, Evan muttered:
“Should’ve done that in the first place.”
Pearl stopped.
She looked back.
There were people nearby now.
A woman waiting for business cards.
A delivery driver.
Another employee.
Pearl could have shouted.
She did not.
“I came here because your store says it helps people.”
Evan said nothing.
“I asked for basic courtesy.”
His face reddened.
Pearl continued.
“That shouldn’t be too much.”
Then she walked out.
The automatic doors opened.
Cold February air hit her face.
Pearl reached her car.
She sat behind the steering wheel.
For several minutes, she did nothing.
Then her eyes filled.
That surprised her.
Evan was a stranger.
A rude young man in a print shop.
Why should his opinion matter?
Pearl wiped one tear angrily.
Because it was not only about him.
There had been other moments.
More of them lately.
A cashier explaining a card reader too loudly as if volume compensated for age.
A doctor speaking to Denise instead of Pearl even though Pearl was the patient.
A bank teller calling her “sweetheart” while questioning a transaction Pearl understood perfectly.
A young man at the grocery store taking something from her hand because apparently reading the label herself was taking too long.
Each moment alone was small.
Together, they built a message.
You are getting old.
You are slow.
You are becoming inconvenient.
Let somebody else do it.
Pearl hated that message.
Not because aging frightened her.
Age was a privilege Evelyn had reminded her repeatedly.
But Pearl did not want slowness confused with incapacity.
She had raised two children.
Managed the payroll for her husband’s plumbing business for twenty-six years.
Cared for him during eighteen months of cancer treatment.
Organized his funeral.
Sold the house afterward.
Managed insurance claims.
Moved herself into a smaller place.
Helped Evelyn through cataract surgery.
Pearl had done difficult things.
Yet one impatient boy with a printer had made her feel incapable because she did not know where a save button was.
She looked at the brown envelope.
“No.”
Pearl spoke aloud.
“He doesn’t get to decide that.”
She started the car.
Her first thought was Denise.
She could call her.
Denise would finish the invitation in fifteen minutes.
Probably improve it.
Probably change half the colors.
Pearl reached for her phone.
Then stopped.
That would solve the invitation.
It would not solve what happened inside Pearl.
She put the phone away.
Instead, she drove to the public library.
The Henderson Branch Library stood seven blocks from Evelyn’s church.
Pearl had not been inside in years.
Evelyn used to bring Pearl there when she was little.
Back then, the building had smelled of paper, dust, and furniture polish.
Now half the main floor seemed devoted to computers.
Pearl almost laughed.
Of course.
A sign read:
PRINTING AVAILABLE.
COLOR COPIES.
STAFF ASSISTANCE.
Pearl stood beneath it.
“Let’s see if you mean it.”
A librarian at the information desk looked up.
She was in her fifties with short silver hair and purple glasses.
“Can I help you?”
Pearl hesitated.
“I hope so.”
The librarian smiled.
“That’s why I’m sitting here.”
Pearl placed the brown envelope on the counter.
“My mother is turning eighty.”
“Happy birthday to her.”
“I’m making invitations.”
Pearl removed the glossy proof.
“I designed this.”
The librarian studied it.
“This is lovely.”
Pearl blinked.
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
The librarian looked up.
“Were you hoping I’d say no?”
Pearl laughed despite herself.
“No.”
Then, unexpectedly, Pearl told her what had happened.
Not every word.
Enough.
The print shop.
The handwritten pages.