September came.
The tomatoes ripened. The basil turned brown at the edges. The morning glories closed earlier each day.
Maya harvested the last of the tomatoes on a cool morning. She picked them carefully, twisting each fruit until it broke free from the vine. She filled a bowl – twenty-three tomatoes, red and orange and yellow.
She made sauce. It was the first time she'd cooked anything that wasn't pasta with jarred sauce. She chopped onions. She minced garlic. She simmered the tomatoes for hours.
Leo came home to the smell of garlic and basil.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Sauce. From the garden."
He looked at the pot. The sauce was thick. Red. It smelled like summer.
"It's not terrible," he said.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said about my cooking."
He kissed her forehead. "I'm proud of you."
"For making sauce?"
"For making a home."
---
That night, they ate the sauce on pasta. It wasn't perfect. It was too salty. The basil was overpowering.
But it was theirs.
Maya sat on the floor of the living room, her bowl in her lap. Leo sat across from her.
"We should invite Marco over," she said. "And Jasmine. And Mr. Chen."
"Another reunion?"
"Not a reunion. A dinner. With food I made."
"He'll be scared."
"He'll be fine."
Leo set down his bowl. "I have something to tell you."
Maya's heart beat faster. "What?"
"The law firm. The one where I work. They offered me a position. As an attorney."
She stared at him. "You're going to be a lawyer again?"
"I'm going to try."
"That's amazing."
"It's a small firm. They do tenant rights. Eviction defense. The same work Vanessa does."
Maya set down her bowl. She crawled across the floor and kissed him.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
"I'm proud of us."
---
October came.
The garden died. The tomato plants turned brown. The basil wilted. The morning glories dropped their seeds.
Maya cleared the soil. She turned the dirt. She covered it with a tarp for the winter.
The courtyard looked empty. Barren. The broken birdbath stood in the corner, covered in frost.
She sat on the ground. The cold seeped through her jeans.
Leo came down. He sat next to her.
"It'll grow back," he said.
"In the spring."
"In the spring."
They sat in silence. The brick walls blocked the wind. The courtyard was quiet.
"I've been thinking about Mrs. Patterson," Maya said.
"What about her?"
"She said the garden would grow back. She didn't say where."
"Maybe she meant here."
"Maybe."
Leo took her hand. "We should visit Mr. Delgado. In Ohio."
"Now?"
"Before winter. Before the roads get bad."
Maya looked at the empty garden. The tarp flapped in the wind.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go."
---
They took the bus.
Greyhound. Twelve hours. The same bus Mrs. Patterson's sister had taken from Florida.
Maya sat by the window. Leo sat next to her. The landscape changed from city to suburb to farm. The sky got bigger. The air got colder.
Mr. Delgado's daughter met them at the station. Her name was Rosa. She was in her forties, with her father's eyes and her father's tired smile.
"He's been asking about you," Rosa said. "He watches the news. He looks for stories about Brooklyn."
"How is he?"
"He's dying."
Maya's throat tightened. "How long?"
"A few months. Maybe less."
Rosa drove them to a small house on the edge of town. The porch had a swing. The yard had a tree. The windows faced south.
Mr. Delgado was in a hospital bed in the living room. His cane was on the floor next to the bed. He was thinner than Maya remembered. His skin was grey.
"Maya," he said. His voice was a whisper.
She sat next to the bed. She took his hand. His fingers were cold.
"I came to say thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For fighting. For staying. For being stubborn."
He almost smiled. "I'm still stubborn."
"I know."
"Did the garden grow back?"
"Yes. In a courtyard. On Crown Street."
He closed his eyes. "Good."
Leo stood by the door. Mr. Delgado opened his eyes and looked at him.
"You're the boy," Mr. Delgado said. "The one from the basement."
"Yes, sir."
"Are you taking care of her?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Delgado nodded. "Good."
They stayed for an hour. Rosa made coffee. The coffee was weak. Maya drank it anyway.
When they left, Mr. Delgado was asleep. His chest rose and fell. Slow. Shallow.
Maya kissed his forehead.
"Goodbye," she said.
---
On the bus ride home, Maya leaned her head on Leo's shoulder.
"He's going to die," she said.
"Everyone dies."
"That's not helpful."
"I know. I'm sorry."
She closed her eyes. The bus rattled. The landscape changed from farm to suburb to city.
"Maya."
"Yeah."
"Thank you for bringing me."
"Thank you for coming."
He kissed her hair. The bus went through a tunnel. The lights flickered.
---
November came.
The apartment was cold. The radiators hissed. The windows were drafty.
Maya spent her days in the studio. She drew Mr. Delgado. His cane. His tired eyes. His grey skin.
She drew Mrs. Patterson. The kitchen table. The folding chairs. The game show on the television.
She drew the old building. The front door. The mailboxes. The stairs. The roof. The water tank. The painted eye.
She filled sketchbooks. Page after page.
Leo came home one evening to find her asleep at the desk. The desk lamp was still on. The pencil was on the floor.
He picked up the pencil. He looked at the drawings.
She had drawn him. His hands. His eyes. His face.
He touched the page gently.
"Maya," he said.
She woke up. "What time is it?"
"Late. Come to bed."
She stood up. Her back ached. Her neck ached.
"I drew you again," she said.
"I saw."
"You're still moving too much."
"I'll try to be still."
She took his hand. They went to the bedroom.
---
December came.
The first snow fell on a Sunday morning. Maya stood at the window, watching the flakes drift down. The courtyard was white. The tarp was buried. The broken birdbath looked like a small mountain.
Leo came up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist.
"We made it," he said.
"Made what?"
"A year. In this apartment. In this life."
She leaned back against his chest. "It doesn't feel like a year."
"What does it feel like?"
"A lifetime."
He kissed her neck. "Good."
---
That afternoon, Maya went to the studio.
She opened a new sketchbook. The pages were blank. White. Clean.
She picked up her pencil.
She drew the future. Not the old building. Not the roof. Not the garden.
Something new.
A house. With a porch. A yard. A garden. A swing.
Two figures on the porch. A man and a woman. Holding hands.
She drew until the light faded.
Leo came in. He looked at the drawing.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Hope."
He sat on the floor. "It's good."
"It's not finished."
"Nothing is."
She set down her pencil. She sat next to him.
"Maya."
"Yeah.
"I want to marry you."
She looked at him. His eyes were brown. The kind of brown that caught light.
"Ask me again," she said. "When the garden grows back."
He almost smiled. "In the spring?"
"In the spring."
He took her hand. "I'll wait."
"So will I."
They sat in silence. The desk lamp flickered. The city hummed.