Jean part i:
When October came, Jean decided that she had put it off long enough. She phoned Telebus and sheepishly she asked about the route she would need to take. The girl at the other end answered her questions in a patient manner and reminded Jean to obtain a transfer tag at Main and McDermot.
This is how Jean came to be knocking on her son’s door one brisk autumn morning.
When no one came to the door, Jean wondered how well she had thought this out. The bus ride here had consumed her with a list of words she might use to explain her sudden visit. Jean hadn’t stopped to consider that he might not be home.
Adam. . . she sighed softly. Despite his 23 years, he was and would always be her baby and she missed him something awful. What had occurred to bring a halt to his visits and their habitual Sunday night suppers and to those thoughtful calls he used to make just to say hi?
Jean sat on the dirty carpeting, her back against the wall, wondering if anyone ever cleaned these old corridors. She took out a pen and paper from her oversized bag, scribbled a few words down and slipped the note under his door.