Olive Kitteridge

by Elizabeth Strout

“Oh, God, yes,” says Suzanne, her quiet words suddenly distinct. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean that she would really wear it.” The dress, Olive thinks. She pulls herself back against the wall. “Well, people dress differently up here.” By God, we do, Olive thinks. But she is stunned in her underwater way. Seaweed Friend murmurs again. Her voice is difficult to make out, but Olive hears her say, “Chris.” “Very special,” Suzanne answers seriously, and for Olive it is as if these women are sitting in a rowboat above her while she sinks into the murky water. “He’s had a hard time, you know. And being an only child—that really sucked for him.” Seaweed murmurs, and Suzanne’s oar slices through the water again. “The expectations, you know.” Olive turns and gazes slowly around the room. Her son’s bedroom. She built it, and there are familiar things in here, too, like the bureau, and the rug she braided a long time ago. But something stunned and fat and black moves through her.