Mercedes felt strained and anxious. She had rearranged the flowers on the coffee table twenty times before finally going outside to sit on her front porch swing.

She was waiting.

Soon Mrs. Whitley would ride by, smiling and waving, but this time Mercedes wouldn’t be inside hiding.

            “This is crazy,” she muttered to herself while biting her nail incessantly.

Her head was spinning with a million different greetings and gestures; ways to catch her former teacher’s attention and spark up some sort of contact. It was not normal for Mercedes to try to talk to new people, let alone some one who struck her with such fear that she was finding it difficult to breath.

            She nearly jumped up to take one last look at the clock, persuading herself it was time to give up, when she heard the familiar sound of old rusty bicycle spokes and rubbery wheels on the concrete side walk.

            Mercedes closed her eyes and attempted to swallow.

            “This is it,” she decided.

            Her mouth was dry as she turned around and forced herself towards the front steps of her porch.

            Mrs. Whitely was riding along, her crooked smile unbending. Her bicycle basket was filled with a few brown grocery bags, a potted plant, and a newspaper. She looked up at Mercedes and raised her hand to wave.

            Mercedes thought she saw Mrs. Whitley wince, maybe even frown, before beginning to wave, but she focused on her task anyway. Maybe she would just wave today. She can always talk to her tomorrow.

            “Mrs. Whitley!” she heard herself croak. It was unbelievable. Her dry throat had made an audible sound. She watched as Mrs. Whitley looked up again, and then began to stop peddling. Slowly, she came to a stop and perched in front of Mercedes’ house as if questioning whether she had even heard some one at all.

            “Yes? I’m Mrs. Whitley. Can I help you with something?” she called out.

            The sound of her voice took Mercedes back at first. It was just how she remembered. Everything about Mrs. Whitley seemed just how she remembered.

            “Oh, yes…hello there… I,” she nearly whispered the words as she sputtered them out like flying darts in all directions. She began a few rapid steps toward the old woman on the bike, trying her best to smile and keep a polite face.

            “I am Mercedes, Mercedes Harris. I used to be a student of yours. I was just wondering, you know, how you are and everything! Forgive me, I… I am a little nervous,” she continued, her volume fading away from her shortness of breath.

            Mrs. Whitley’s eyes narrowed and studied Mercedes’ face. For a long moment she said nothing at all, but her smile remained permanently fixed. At last, she drew a sharp breath,

            “Mercedes,” she said slowly as if trying to recall the name.

            The air between the two women stood eerily still. Mercedes expected Mrs. Whitley to say more so she waited. Suddenly, she realized embarrassingly that perhaps Mrs. Whitley has no recollection of the events of her past at all. After all, she must be very old by now, in her seventies at least. At once Mercedes wished she could run inside the comfort of her house and crawl into bed. What kind of dreadful person forces a kind old woman to recall painful events?

            “I’m sorry,” she stammered, “Really… you must think-“

            “It was nice seeing you again, Mercedes,” Mrs. Whitley interrupted. Her tone was flat and unaffected. Without another word, she looked forward and began peddling again. Mercedes stared after her, frozen in her spot on the cool, dewy lawn.

            When she could no longer see Mrs. Whitley’s gray figure on the sidewalk, she exhaled. Mystified, she took off toward Nan’s.