“That sounds interesting. She’d be pretty old if she lived there. Why did he call you about it, and why did you tell him we’d go?”
A grin bursts through. “Because the woman he’s going to speak with, well, her name is Rosie Ryan.”
“What?” Coffee sloshes over the rim of my cup.
“You heard me.”
My pulse is racing. How many Rosie Ryans can there be in Toronto? “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Rosie… she’s… she’s still alive? She must be…”
“A hundred and twelve. You have good genetics, evidently.”
My mind is racing so fast, I can hardly think. “No. I don’t believe it. It can’t be the same woman. She’d have to be the oldest woman alive!”
“Nope. Oldest woman alive is a hundred and sixteen. A Brazilian nun, I believe. So I thought we might go and meet this Rosie Ryan. See for ourselves.”
I’m in shock. “I have to bring my grandmother. She won’t believe it, either.”
A frown crosses his brow. “Careful, Bridget. You can ask, but after everything you’ve told me, she might not want to meet her.”
“What are you talking about? Ihaveto. Rosie is her mother, and they’ve never met.”
He doesn’t move, but he watches me, willing me to think a little deeper. Then his meaning sinks in, and I realize he’s right. All Grandma has of her mother is a group photograph and a quick note of regret, and she has been very clear that she wants nothing more than that.
I have often wondered how I might feel, had her story been my story. I’d like to think I’d be intrigued enough to search for my mother, but that could be because my mother and I had been close. But if I’d never known her, would I have bothered? Would I, like Grandma, have been so badly hurt that I wouldn’t seek her out?
Rosie Ryan is a hundred and twelve years old. Grandma and I have both assumed that wherever she was, she was dead by now. Fair to say that we’d been pretty sure of it, and by thinking of her that way, it took the burden of curiosity away.
Already, I’m picking up my purse, and he holds up my jacket. I shrug into the sleeves and call her simultaneously. “Can I come over? I need to talk with you about something.”
She sounds confused but pleased.
“I’ll bring donuts. And, um, I’m bringing Matthew.” I wonder if he hears her gleeful reply from where he’s standing. I hang up and look at him. “Sorry to volunteer you. I don’t know how to tell her.”
“I’m honoured to be invited. When are we going?”
“Now.”
He watches me fumble in my purse for my wallet, then he leans in and gives me a warm kiss on my cheek. “Don’t worry. It’s on me.”
I am so glad he’s here.
The Uber to Grandma’s goes by in a flash, at least to me, because I don’t register where we are. My mind is completely focused on this impossible news. Every so often, Matthew’s hand squeezes mine, bringing me back to earth. When we arrive, Grandma opens the door and brightens along with my own eager smile. I feel like I’m ready to burst with the news, except I am aware I must be careful. This could go any number of ways. I open my mouth to speak, but she saves me. She looks right past me.
“You must be Matthew,” she gushes. She eyes the box in my hand but only speaks to him. “Did you get the glazed ones?”
“Bridget said that was mandatory. That, and a lot of napkins.”
She claps her hands and takes Matthew’s elbow, leaving me to carry everything in. As the two of them get to know each other, I struggle to get my thoughts in order. Grandma positions herself between the two of us, then she pats his knee with her hand and offers him a donut.
My ninety-four-year-old grandmother is flirting with my boyfriend.
Matthew appears delighted. He offers her one as well, and she picks out her favourite—sour cream glazed. He grins at me, then he sobers slightly, reading my concern.
Grandma spots it, too. “Don’t keep me in suspense. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
