She knelt on the seat of her chair, hanging over the back. Blank face. Steady, penetrating gaze. Feeling her eyes on me, I looked up at the solemn child. Our eyes met.

I smiled. She didn’t smile back. I paused, then gave a small wave. Her gaze never wavered.

I reached down and cradled the sharp shell of a Damariscotta River oyster. I brought it to my lips, slurping the wet, briny gem as gracefully as I could, knowing I was being watched.

Little girls and oysters were swimming in my head. I told my husband about the first time I’d eaten an oyster — what I’d been told, anyway. There’s a picture of me at around two, in a pale yellow quilted bathrobe, cheeks full, looking as if I’m deliberating whether I liked the mouthful I hadn’t yet swallowed.

This girl was older than I’d been in the picture, probably 4 or 5, and eating pizza, not oysters. She kept watching me off and on throughout dinner.

“Why me?” I wondered.

Every now and then, I’d catch her eye and smile. I wanted her to know that I welcomed whatever this was.

Around us, the restaurant buzzed softly. We sat in what had once been a living room, looking out toward the ferry landing.

As she and her parents got up to leave, she walked straight to our table. She squeezed into the narrow space between our table and the next, coming to a stop beside my chair.

She was clutching her special cuddly. Her father stood just behind her; her mother hovered close.

Standing in between the tables, she said quietly, “What is your name?”

I told her, then asked hers. She paused, still studying me, and then told me slowly.

She stayed, standing there. I was afraid to break the spell.

Finally, I asked quietly, “How was your pizza?”

“Good.”

“Are you enjoying Stonington?”

“Yes.”

“Was this your first time here at the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“It’s time to go now,” her mother said gently.

She gave me one last look, then took one step closer and wrapped her arms around my neck, with her cuddly resting on my shoulder.

I hugged her back, the fine, fair strands of her hair soft against my cheek. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold still. Then she let go and walked away.

I sat there, warmed and wordless, as if I’d been quietly blessed.

As they started to walk away, her mother looked back at me. I recognized the expression — the one I’d worn myself in the past, when I wasn’t sure how strangers would respond to my son.

The summer after kindergarten at a sailing club picnic, Richard appeared at my side, interrupting my conversation. He was with a woman I didn’t know who was smiling, shifting her feet and her eyes, looking around my conversation group. “Mom, there is someone I would like you to meet,” he said. “This is Mrs. Martien from Rolling Knolls.” Mrs. Martien smiled at Richard and then looked at me. I had learned to trust that Richard had a reason for me to meet this special person, and I was curious to know what it was. I grinned and shook her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.” 

When I remember that little girl in Stonington, I think about what my children taught me.

She didn’t owe me a smile.

She didn’t owe me conversation.

She didn’t even owe me her name.

She chose to give me a hug.

It felt as though we belonged to the same secret club.