I sigh and go look in the bathroom. As predicted, it’s empty.
I order me and Grammy some coffee and get us two blueberry muffins, and then we sit in front of the big windows and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
After thirty minutes, I pat Grammy’s hand. “When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Yesterday! She said she’d be here.”
“OK,” I say. “Why don’t you try calling her?”
Grammy nods, pulls up her number. I click her phone on speaker. It’s silent and staticky and then we hear a chime. “This number is no longer in service,” an automated voice says.
“No—that can’t be,” Grammy says, shaking her head. “Try again.”
I try again, and the same thing happens. Grammy sets her mouth in a thin line, and then peers out the window beyond me. “Let’s just wait fifteen more minutes, OK?” she says in a whisper.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me get us a refill.”
I stand and walk to the counter. As I top off our cups with hot coffee, I wipe away a few escaped tears.She’s not coming, she never was. I knew this would happen.I want to yell at Grammy for being so optimistic—but I know she is hurting too, barely keeping it together. We sit for forty more minutes and drink our coffees, watching cars go by, never stopping. Then, without a word, Grammy stands up. “Let’s go home,” she says.
So we drive the hour back in silence, Grammy staring out her window, refusing to look at me. When we get inside our apartment, Grammy sits down heavily in her chair and says, “Shut my door, Lyric, baby. Will you?”
I nod and do as she asks. Then I stand outside and listen as she starts to weep softly.
Suddenly, my limbs feel like anvils. My eyelids feel droopy. I am so, so tired.
I crawl into my bed, fully clothed. Pull the covers around me and fall dead asleep.
I’m dreaming—it’s not a nightmare, but it’s also not familiar. I am alone, in a big, drafty house that overlooks an even bigger lake. The moon is out and it is so bright the water is a silver flash across the night. I am upstairs, looking out an open window. It’s summer, because I can smell honeysuckle and wet earth, and there are crickets screaming at one another from the tall grass. I see a fox, slipping in and out of the nearby woods, and then an owl hoots from some branch, but I swear I also hear someone singing.
“Hello?” I call out. “Who is there?”
My voice is small, like a child’s. I notice my hands are small too, and my feet, and then I realize I’m wearing pj’s covered in cartoons. I’m all alone in a house that’s not mine, and somewhere outside I can hear Mama’s singing growing fainter and fainter until I can’t tell if she’s a woman or a cricket or a fox or an owl or the lake blinking secrets at me.
I leave the house. I walk and walk and walk through the woods. I am so quiet. I don’t make a sound. I know she wants me to look for her. To find her. It is a game. I walk and walk until I am too tired to go on. So,I stop. Build myself a pile of leaves, and curl into the middle of it. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I am high up, perched in Grammy’s arms. No, I am in Juniper’s arms. No—Daddy is throwing me high in the air. No—I am in Kiana’s hands, high above the glossy floors of school, in a cup of coffee. No—I am—the sun is too bright to see what or who is holding me. But I am held. I am seen. I am held. I am not on the ground anymore.
When I finally wake up, it’s past ten p.m. I usually help Grammy with her bedtime routine at nine.
I hurry to her room and find the door still closed, but I don’t hear any weeping. “Grammy?” I knock. “Do you need any help? I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“I’m fine. Come on in.”
I step inside. It’s completely dark, TV off. “I’m still trying to get myself together, baby girl,” Grammy says from the corner where her chair is.
“I’m going to turn on your bedside lamp,” I say gently.
Instantly, the room is illuminated with a soft pink glow. I see Grammy in her chair, still fully dressed—stockings, shoes, pearl earrings and all. And in her lap, the stack of photos she planned to show Mom.
“Here, let me take those,” I say, holding out my hand. Grammy hands the photos over silently, and I tuck them away in the plastic box in her closet.
“Do you want to get ready for bed?” I try.
“Don’t think I could sleep, even if I wanted to,” she says with a weak smile. “Think I’ll just sit here awhile longer.”
“Grammy,” I say, sitting on the edge of her bed so that I’m right by her. “It’s OK. I’m mad at Mom, but not you. You don’t have to punish yourself for having hope.”
