But it wasn’t just a closet.
I could see it, once I was standing in it. The bones of a room underneath. On the back wall, under a coat of white paint, the faint shadow of old wallpaper. Little blue flowers. In the corner, behind a shelf, the outline of where a doorway used to be. A bathroom. I could see the edge of an old pink sink, half covered by stacks of paper towels.
Room 18.
It used to be a room.
Jean was sitting on the edge of the mattress.
Up close, she was tiny. Bird-boned. The long white nightgown was too big for her. Her feet were bare and pale on the cold concrete floor. Her white hair was a cloud around her face.
She was holding a stack of folded towels in her lap. Pressing them against her chest.
When she saw Gabby, her whole face lit up.
