Kitabı oku: «The Rest of the Story», sayfa 3
“A lot of these motels and houses are rented by the same people for the same week, every single year,” my dad explained to me. “The reservations are handed down literally in wills, so they stay in the family. A lot of people have been coming here for generations.”
“And thank goodness for that,” Mimi added, starting up the front steps of the house, which had a wide porch, a couple of rocking chairs facing the water. “Joe used to say that it doesn’t matter what you do, everyone needs a vacation. In this business, we just happen to count on it.”
My dad followed her, taking the screen door she’d pulled open and holding it for me as she went inside. Once in the foyer, though, a cluttered living room to my right, I found myself stopping short. I was steps onto a shiny wooden floor that stretched down a long hallway before opening up to a wide room full of windows. Beyond them, there was only lake, the sun glittering off it.
“Emma?” my dad asked. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t sure how to explain to him, or if I even could, how I knew that this floor would tilt up slightly as I walked across it, or that the room at the end of the hall was the kitchen, even though I could see nothing of it from where I stood. Outside, this house had felt new and unknown. But standing here now, I would have bet my life I’d walked down this same stretch many times before.
“Now, I’ve put you in the little bedroom, if that’s okay,” Mimi said over her shoulder as I finally moved forward, down the hallway to come into, yes, the kitchen. A big wooden table sat against the wall of windows facing the lake and everything smelled like toast. Also, the sink was stacked full of dirty dishes. Of course I noticed. “It’s the only one free and I knew you’d want your privacy. The sheets are all clean and there’s towels on the bed if you want to freshen up.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Is it …”
I trailed off as my dad climbed a nearby flight of stairs, carrying my suitcase with him, then went left on the landing. Clearly, he needed no directions.
“Right up there,” Mimi said to me. “You’ll find it.”
I thanked her, then went up the stairs myself, the middle one creaking audibly beneath me. At the top, the carpet was beige and well worn, and I could see there were three bedrooms to the left, a bathroom to the right. Only the door on the end was open, so I headed that way.
“You know your way around this place,” I said to my dad when I found him in a small bedroom with a single bed, a closet, and one window facing the lake.
“Spent some time here,” he replied, his voice low. I’d been so focused on my own memories, I hadn’t given much thought to what he’d been feeling. But it was definitely kicking up something. He’d put my suitcase in the closet, my duffel on the bed next to two stacked towels and a washcloth. They were white with a little pink rosebud pattern, and seeing them, I felt it again, that familiarity. “This was your mom’s room, way back when.”
“Really?” I walked around the end of the bed to look out the window. The roof below it slanted down at an angle, ending in what looked like a porch overhang. “She used to tell me stories about this.”
“This room?”
“And this view.” It was gorgeous, the pane of glass capturing the lake in a perfect frame. Straight out ahead I could see a floating platform, a motorboat tethered to it. To the right, there were the motels we’d passed, as well as more docks in front of small beaches where moss hung from the trees. And far to the left, what looked like a whole other town of large houses, hotels, and other newer construction. “And the boats. She talked about those, too.”
“Yes, I’m actually glad you brought that up while we were, um, alone.” He sat down on the bed. “I’d like a word with you about that.”
“About what?” I asked.
He nodded at the window, where another boat had now appeared, zooming past. “Boating. One of the great pastimes of North Lake. Which I enjoyed about as much as you do sailing.”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No,” he said. “Sailing is about wind. With motorboats, it’s speed, which means it can be very dangerous, even if the driver of the boat hasn’t been drinking. And here, they often are.”
“You know I won’t drink, Dad,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, “but I still want to say this. I don’t want you to ever go out on the water with someone who has been drinking or plans to.”
“Is this like a drug talk, but aquatic?”
“Emma.” That tone was like a yellow light, just before red: a warning. “Just promise me, please. It’s important.”
I looked out the window again. The boat had circled around and was now going back the other way. “I’ll be careful. I swear.”
“Okay.” He sat back, resting his palms on the nubby bedspread. “And you know, now that I think about it, this would be a great place to work on your driving. I’m sure Mimi has a car you could borrow.”
“Dad,” I said in my warning voice, “I’d rather talk about boats.”
“I know, I know.” He sighed. “And I’m trying to be understanding. But this is your driver’s license! When I was your age, I was counting the days until I could get on the road—”
“Because it represented freedom, and independence, all things already available to me via public transportation and ride apps,” I finished for him. “I don’t need to drive. It’s just not necessary.”
“But don’t you want to?” he asked.
“Frankly, no,” I said. “I like walking.”
“When we move, you won’t be able to walk everywhere, like you do now.”
“So I’ll take the bus or use GetThere.”
He sighed again. I felt like I understood my dad pretty well, a by-product of it just being us two for so long. But I didn’t get why, ever since I’d turned fifteen, it was so freaking important to him that I get my license. He’d relentlessly pushed me to take driver’s ed and get my permit, then made a big deal of me getting my provisional license, followed by my full one six months later. I stuck it in my wallet, intending to forget about it, but then he was always wanting us to go out driving together, when he’d spent the entire time I was behind the wheel gripping what Bridget’s dad called the “oh shit” handle over his window and pounding an imaginary brake. The whole thing just amplified my anxiety, even before I’d backed into a neighbor’s SUV in our underground parking deck, which had scared me so badly I’d burst into tears.
“Dad,” I said now. “Maybe I’m just not meant to be a driver. Not everyone is. Think of the accident rate.”
“Driving changed my life, though,” he said. “Do you know I bought my first car, a used red Audi—”
“A4 with a sunroof and leather seats,” I filled in for him. This story was as familiar as one of my mom’s.
“—right before I came to Lake North to work my first summer?” He sighed once more, this time happily. “Stocked shelves at AllDrug nights and weekends my entire senior year to save up for it, and drove it off the lot and straight here to my job at the Club. Or, you know, there.” He nodded at the left side of the window, and the lake. “I just don’t want you to miss that feeling. That you can go anywhere. It opens up the world.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dad, I’m about to spend three weeks in a place that for all intents and purposes I’ve never been to before. Gotta say, the world seems pretty wide right now.”
“Yes,” he said, “but with your license you’d be free to see even more of it. Like Lake North, for example.”
“Where I’d probably back Mimi’s car into another, more expensive SUV. Is that what you really want?”
This was a good point. I’d hit a Range Rover in that fender bender: it hadn’t been cheap. “Okay, fine. But once I’m back, we discuss. Deal?”
“Deal.”
That resolved, he got to his feet, coming over to join me where I was standing by the window. “So, look,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Be honest: You okay with this arrangement? It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“I’m fine,” I said, although now that his time left here was dwindling, I was feeling a slow simmer of anxiety I could only hope wouldn’t reach full boil. Did I want to change my mind?
The panic, now hitting medium high, said yes. But I had learned, over time and with various therapists we’d consulted, that it did not get to speak for me. I could do this. And I would, for my dad and Tracy first and foremost, but also, in some small way, for my mom. I worried so much about forgetting her as the years passed. Maybe spending a month in the place she came from would help me remember.
We walked downstairs, back into the kitchen, which was now empty. Peering down the hallway, I could see Mimi outside, talking to the pregnant girl out by the cleaning cart over at the motel. As they conferred, a car zoomed past on the road, beeped, and she waved her hand.
“Still the same table,” my dad marveled as we passed the big wooden one against the windows. I, of course, could only see all those dirty dishes, still untouched. “But that toaster’s new.”
“Toaster?”
He gestured at the corner of one counter, by the sink. Sure enough, sitting there was a huge shiny silver toaster, the kind with multiple bread slots and various dials for settings. “In a place like this, you notice change,” he said to me, starting down the hallway. Appliances, too, I thought, before following behind him.
“Leaving already, Matthew?” Mimi asked when we got back outside. “You just got here!”
“He has a plane to catch,” I told her. “The honeymoon awaits.”
She stepped forward, giving him a hug. “Have a wonderful time. And don’t worry a thing about this girl, she’ll be fine.”
She said this so confidently, as if she knew me, as well as the future. The weird part was how much I wanted to believe she was right.
“Thanks, Mimi,” he replied. “For everything.”
She smiled at him, then gave me a wink before turning and pulling open the office door. I felt a blast of cold air before it closed behind her.
“Still feel weird about this,” he said when it was just us again. “It’s not the way I planned to be leaving you.”
“I’ll be fine,” I told him. “Go. Sail. Honey that moon. I’ll see you in three weeks.”
He laughed. “Honey that moon?”
“Just go, would you?”
Finally, he got in the car and started the engine, backing out slowly as I stood there. I made a point to wave at him, smiling, as he pulled onto the main road. Then I turned around to face the house and the lake, taking a deep breath.
As I started walking, the pregnant girl was still outside the last unit, now sitting in one of the plastic chairs, looking at her phone. She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her watching me, so I picked up my pace crossing the grass, as if I had a solid plan. No matter where you are, home or the strangest of places, everyone wants to look like they know where they’re going.
FOUR
“Well, shit.”
I opened my eyes at the sound of voices, the first I’d heard since crawling into my bed after my dad left and falling asleep. It had still been morning then: now the clock on the bureau, analog with tiny numbers, said 3:30. Whoops.
“Why is there no bread in this house?” a woman was saying in the kitchen, the question accompanied by the banging of cabinets. “I just brought a loaf over here two days ago.”
“I’m not hungry,” a voice that sounded like a child said. “I told you that.”
“You’ll eat something if I make it.” Footsteps, then a door—the screen one downstairs, I was pretty sure—slamming. “Mama! What happened to all my bread?”
“Your what?” That was Mimi.
“My bread! I’m trying to make Gordon a sandwich.”
“Honey, I don’t know. If there’s bread, it’s in the regular place.”
“But that’s not my bread, that I bought with my money, for my family to eat,” her daughter replied.
“I’m not hungry!” came again from downstairs.
“I’ll remind you that we are all your family,” Mimi hollered, “and if you want to get picky about it, then you can stop drinking all my Pop Soda and not replacing it.”
Silence. But the heavy kind. Meanwhile, I thought of my mom, who was the only person I’d ever known who had heard of Pop Soda, much less drank it. It was like a generic Diet Coke, heavy on the syrup. It had been years since I’d had one, but I could still remember how it made my teeth hurt.
“Mama, all I am asking is where is the bread,” the woman said, sounding tired. “If you have some other issue with me, let’s get into it, by all means, the day hasn’t yet been long enough.”
Mimi responded, although at this point they were apparently close enough not to be yelling, so I couldn’t hear it. But I was up now, so I grabbed my toothbrush and navigated the way to the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall. Once rid of nap breath, I finger combed my hair, took a deep breath, and went downstairs.
At first the kitchen looked completely empty. Only when I’d started to the cabinets for some water—again noting all those dirty dishes, how could you just leave them like that?—did I notice a little girl standing just inside the opening to the hallway. Until she reached up, adjusting the glasses on her face, she’d been so still I’d assumed she was part of the wall.
“Oh,” I said, startled. “Hi.”
She studied me, her face serious. While her appearance—dark hair in a ponytail, denim shorts and thick plastic clogs, a purple T-shirt that said #AWESOME—was young, the expression on her face reflected the world-weariness usually seen in a much older woman. “Hello,” she replied.
I glanced down the hallway, to the screen door. “Are you looking for Mimi?”
“No,” she said. “Are you?”
“No,” I replied. “I was actually trying to find a glass for some water.”
Another beat as she studied me. Then she turned, crossing into the kitchen and standing on tiptoe to open an upper cabinet. She pulled out a plastic tumbler with a gas station logo on it, holding it out in my direction. “If you want ice, it’s in the bucket in the freezer.”
“I’m good,” I said, taking the glass. “Thank you, um …”
“Gordon,” she said.
“Gordon,” I repeated. “I’m Emma.”
She nodded, as if this was acceptable. Then she watched as I went to the sink, filled my glass, and took a sip. “My real first name is Anna,” she said after a moment. “But nobody with two names ever uses the first one.”
“I do,” I said.
This seemed to intrigue her. “Really?”
I nodded. “I’m Emma Saylor, technically.”
“And you get to be just Emma?”
“Well, yeah.”
She looked wistful for a second. “Lucky.”
The door banged again, and I heard footsteps approaching. A moment later, a woman in jeans and a polyester uniform top that said CONROY MARKET entered the kitchen. She had long blond hair pulled back in a headband and wore tall wedge sandals of the sort Nana would call ankle breakers.
“Well, it looks like you’re having a quesadilla, Gordon, despite the fact I just bought—”
She stopped talking when she saw me, her blue eyes, lashes thick with mascara, widening. I put my glass down on the counter, thinking I’d overstepped by helping myself.
“Oh, my God,” she said softly, putting a hand to her chest. “You look just like … Waverly?”
Her voice broke on the word, and I saw now she was pale, like she literally had seen a ghost. “No,” I said quickly. “I’m Emma. Her daughter.”
“Emma?” she repeated.
“Saylor,” Gordon offered. “That’s her other name.”
The woman moved her hand to her mouth, still staring at me. “I’m sorry,” she managed finally. “I just … I just didn’t expect you here.”
“It was kind of last-minute,” I told her. “My dad was leaving the country and I didn’t have any other place—”
Before I could finish, she had crossed the short distance between us and was pulling me into probably the tightest hug I had ever experienced. It felt like she was squeezing the breath right out of me.
“Oh, my God,” she said again. Over her shoulder, Gordon observed our embrace, chewing a thumbnail. “You’re her spitting image—I saw you there and it was like she was back for a second.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Now, finally, she pulled away, and I saw tears in her eyes. They were so blue, like Mimi’s. Like my mom’s. And mine. “Do you even remember me?”
I paused, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I—”
“Celeste,” she told me, putting her hand back on her chest. “I’m your aunt. Do you remember? And Gordon there, she’s your cousin.”
“Oh,” I said, glancing at Gordon again, then back to her. “Right. Hi.”
Celeste blinked, a tear running down her face. “Oh, God, you must think I’m a total psycho, look at me.”
“You’re fine,” I said as she reached over to a roll of paper towels and ripped one off, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry you weren’t warned.”
“Well, that’s Mama for you,” she said. She blew her nose with a honk. “We’ve only talked on the phone three times today already. Are you hungry? I was just about to make Gordon something.”
“Oh,” I told her, “you don’t have to do that. I can just—”
“Sit,” Celeste said, gesturing to the table. She handed me my water. “Now, let me find those tortillas …”
I went to a chair, doing as I was told as she opened the fridge and began taking things out. A moment later, Gordon joined me, bringing a thick paperback book along with her.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“Oh, Lord,” Celeste groaned. “Don’t get her started about those damn gorillas.”
“They are chimpanzees,” Gordon said. From the annoyance in her voice, it was clear this was a common exchange.
“Can I see?” I asked, nodding at the book. She pushed it toward me and I flipped it over. The Allies, Gathering Two: Justice Begins, it said in thick raised print on the cover. The illustration was of, yes, a chimpanzee, but with very human features, staring into a red-and-yellow-streaked setting sun. “Oh, the Allies series. I remember these. There are, like, a million of them.”
“Twenty in the first gathering, fourteen so far in the second,” Gordon replied. “And that’s not counting all the extra editions and compilations, plus the manga and graphic novels.”
“It’s like she’s speaking another language,” Celeste added from the stove, where she was now heating up a frying pan. “I gave up trying to follow years ago.”
Gordon, unfazed, flipped the book back over and opened it to a bent-down page, then started to read. After a moment, she reached up, twirling a piece of hair around one finger.
“She’s gone,” Celeste told me, tossing a tortilla into the frying pan. “Gets lost when she reads. Thank God for it. I give her a hard time, but I was never good in school. She is.”
“What grade is she in?”
“Starting fifth in the fall. She’s in accelerated reading and math,” she replied, sounding proud. “Clearly not my child, but I will take some of the credit.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought she was—”
Celeste looked over her shoulder at me. “What? Oh, no. Her mama’s your cousin Amber, from my daddy’s side. She lives in Florida right now.”
Amber, I thought. The name was familiar, but only faintly so. “Was my mom close with her?”
“Thick as thieves,” she replied, pushing the tortilla with a spatula. “But we all were, back then. Growing up here, family was everything. It had to be. We only ever had each other.”
It occurred to me that at some point I would need to draw up a family tree to really understand my place in all this. But as long as I had Celeste here, it was worth getting started.
“So you have … how many kids?” I asked her.
“Three,” she said, flipping the finished quesadilla onto a nearby plate and starting another one. “There’s Trinity, who you may have seen earlier, she’s pregnant right now …”
I thought of the girl with the cleaning cart, eyeballing me as I passed. We were first cousins? So much for family being all you had. She’d acted like she hated me. “She works at the motel, right?”
“Yes,” Celeste allowed with a sigh, “but only in the broadest definition of the word. Mostly she’s on her phone complaining about how her feet hurt while Mama does both their jobs because she’s a damn softie.”
“Right,” I said.
“Then there’s my son, Jack, he’s three years older than you,” she continued, shaking the frying pan over the burner, “and finally Bailey, who is your age.”
“She’s seventeen?”
“Both your birthdays are in April. Your mama and I were pregnant at the same time, our due dates just weeks apart. We spent a lot of time on the phone complaining to each other, now that I think about it. I probably shouldn’t be so hard on Trinity.”
She finished up the second quesadilla, then brought both plates over to the table.
“Thank you,” I said as she put one in front of me.
“You’re very welcome,” she replied. “Silverware and napkins are—”
Before she finished saying this, I was reaching like it was a reflex to the rattan basket across from me, pulling it closer to retrieve a fork, knife, and napkin. Huh.
“Well, never mind,” she said with another smile. “Gordon. Put the book away and eat.”
“I can eat and read,” Gordon replied, picking up her quesadilla and taking a bite, her eyes still on the page.
Celeste rolled her eyes and went to the fridge, retrieving a can of Pop Soda. Then she sat down, opening the can before kicking off her shoes, first one, then the other. “What a day. It’s only early season and I’m already exhausted.”
“You work at a market?” I asked.
She looked surprised I knew this, then glanced down at her uniform top. “I forgot I had this thing on! Usually take it off the second I get in the car. Yes, Conroy Market. Only grocery store in North Lake. I’m an assistant manager.”
I took a big bite of the quesadilla: I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I’d begun eating. “This is really good,” I told Celeste.
“You want another one?” She started to get to her feet. “It’ll only take a second.”
“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”
While I ate, I could tell she was trying not to stare at me, my presence still so surprising. Finally she got to her feet, taking my now-empty plate and Gordon’s. “I can do those,” I said as she started to run water into the sink, crammed with all those dishes.
“Oh, no,” she said. “You’re a guest.”
“I want to,” I said, wanting to add that it had been driving me crazy all day. “You cooked, I clean. That’s the rule in our house. Please?”
Celeste looked at me for a second. “Okay,” she said finally. “But know this: you start washing dishes in this house, you’ll never stop.”
In response, I stood up and walked over to the sink, pulling the faucet aside and turning it all the way hot before beginning to sort everything into categories. I knew I probably looked like the weirdo cousin, but as I added soap to the water, finding a scrub brush in the nearby dish rack, I felt more in control than I had since that call in the dark from Bridget twelve hours earlier. I was in a strange place, feeling strange even to myself, but this task was one I knew well, and I took comfort in it. So much so that when I finished, I turned to see both Celeste and Gordon had gone, leaving the Allies book and the lake as my only company.
I always did a lot of good thinking while washing dishes, and Mimi’s sink had been slam full. By the time I was done, I’d decided to look at my time here at North Lake as a kind of organizing. So back up in my room, once I unpacked my suitcase and put my clothes away, I pulled out the one notebook I’d brought with me. MIMI + JOE, I wrote at the top of a blank page, with CELESTE and WAVERLY each under a vertical line beneath. From those, I drew more lines, adding in my dad beside my mom’s name, and mine underneath it. Then I did the same with Trinity, Jack, and Bailey under Celeste’s, realizing as I did so I had no idea who her husband was. I’d be here three weeks, though. I had a feeling I could fill in the gaps.
Just then there was a whirring sound from outside, distant, and I turned to see a motorboat puttering from the shore to the floating platform I’d seen earlier. Then I saw another from the corner of my eye, followed by one more, all of them converging to the same spot from varying directions. The first pulled up alongside, and a dark-haired girl in a yellow bikini top and shorts jumped out, her phone to one ear. As the others docked as well, more people joined her. Within moments, between the boats and those who had arrived on them, you couldn’t see the raft at all.
Downstairs, the screen door slammed—this sound was becoming familiar—and I heard someone come into the kitchen, then start up the stairs.
“… told you, I was at work and couldn’t answer,” a guy, maybe my age by the sound of it, was saying. “Taylor. Don’t start. Seriously.”
The bathroom door closed, and I heard water running, along with more of this conversation, now muffled. As the screen door slammed again, I thought how much this place would have driven Nana crazy: she treated her house like it was fragile, with doors and drawers eased shut, gently. You slammed, you scrammed. That was a direct quote from my dad.
“Jacky?” Mimi yelled from the kitchen. “You here?”
“One sec,” the guy yelled back from the bathroom.
“Jacky? Hello?”
“ONE SEC,” he replied, louder. This time, she didn’t say anything, but a moment later I heard the fridge opening. I looked back at my family tree, full of gaps, and went downstairs.
“There you are,” Mimi said when she saw me. Still in her tie-dye, she’d ditched her sandals and put on fuzzy slippers in their place. A can of Pop Soda was in her hand. “I wondered where you got off to.”
“I fell asleep after Dad left,” I told her. “And then saw Celeste and Gordon.”
“Oh, good,” she said, turning back to the fridge. “You want a soda?”
“No, thanks,” I said. As the kid of a dentist, they’d been so forbidden in my early life that when I finally could have them, I’d lost interest.
“Oxford’s holding down the office until dinner, so I was just getting ready to watch my shows,” she said, grabbing a bag of potato chips from the top of the fridge. “Want to join me?”
Upstairs, Jacky—Jack?—was talking again. “Sure.”
She started down the hallway, to the living room we’d passed on the way in. The walls were lined with long couches—one leather, one dark blue corduroy—and there was a huge TV set, surrounded by shelves of family pictures. Off the back side of the room was the screened-in porch I’d seen earlier from outside, separated by a door with a glass pane that had been covered with a tacked-up towel. The result was a dimness that would have made the room feel cold even if the A/C hadn’t been going full blast, which of course, it was.
“Does it feel hot in here to you?” Mimi asked as I thought this. I was about to say no, and try not to do it vehemently, but then she was over at the A/C unit, adjusting it from 67 to 65. “That’s better. I hate a warm house. Have a seat.”
She was already doing just that, lowering herself onto the leather couch and putting her soda into the built-in cup holder on its arm. Even though the couch was huge, I didn’t want to crowd her, so I moved to the blue one.
“Now, let’s see,” Mimi said, pulling up a list of recorded programs. “What are we in the mood for?”
As I looked at the screen, scanning the titles, it was clear there was only one answer to this question: home improvement. Everything listed—Fix and Flip, Contractor: You!, From Demo to Dream House—shared this same subject. I said, “I take it you like renovation shows.”
“They’re my therapy,” she replied, scrolling through the titles before picking an episode of something called 3 Flip Sisters. “Have a hard day with everything breaking down all around you, then come and watch somebody else fix something up nice. I can’t get enough.”
She sighed contentedly, taking a sip of her soda as the show began. “One family,” intoned the announcer as the screen showed a trio of blond women, all with long hair, wearing matching plaid shirts, “three opinions, one firm deadline. This is 3 Flip Sisters.”
Just then my phone beeped in my pocket, the first noise it had made since my dad texted from the airport an hour earlier to say he and Tracy were boarding their plane. This time, it was Ryan. She’d been incommunicado since arriving at Windmill a couple of days after the wedding.
Testing testing. Anyone out there?
I smiled, quickly typing a response. Your phone works? I thought you were in the middle of nowhere.
I am, she replied after a moment. But if I climb this hill and stand on one foot, I have a signal. For now anyway. What are you and Bridget doing?
I filled her in, as succinctly as I could, while the TV showed a montage of the sisters and Bill and Shelley looking at various properties. By the time I hit send, they’d settled on a ranch house with hideous green linoleum floor in the kitchen that Angie, the sister Realtor, said was priced to sell.
“They’ll end up putting an arch in there someplace, mark my words,” Mimi said as the TV cut to a commercial. “Paula loves an arch.”
My phone beeped. Holy crap. Is Bridget’s grandpa okay?
Haven’t heard from her since she left, I wrote back. So not sure.
Are you okay? What’s it like there? I’ve never even heard you mention having another grandmother.
Even though Mimi was on the other couch, a fair distance away, I tilted the screen to be sure she couldn’t see it. The desire not to hurt her was that strong, even as I knew that I, too, could have claimed injured feelings, considering. Where had she been all this time? It was one thing if my mom had kept her at arm’s length—notoriously private, she got even more so when she was using—but five years had passed since her death. Had my dad run interference, thinking Mimi and all the rest of the Calvanders would be too much for me to handle?
