Sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, Grandma reminds me that she didn’t have her mum, either. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
Grandma has a complicated and unpleasant backstory. In 1930, in the heat of the Great Depression, when she was a few months old, she had been bundled in a basket and literally left at the doors of a church by a mother she never met. She spent five years in an orphanage before she was finally adopted by a lovely couple, the Davises. With them, she lived a happy life.
At least I had my mother for nine years. I can’t imagine having no memories of her at all.
I know I should probably not say anything, but I can’t stop myself. “I wish Mom was here to tease me about being almost thirty.”
Grandma exhales quietly. “I wish she was here every day, dear. Wouldn’t the three of us have had fun.”
I swallow a crispy lump of lemon chicken. “If your biological mother were here to tease you, how old would she be?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m sure she’s been dead and buried a long time, Bridget.”
“We never talk about her. Do you ever think of her?”
“Why would I? No. She never thought of me.”
“You don’t know that she didn’t, Grandma. Maybe she was young and broke. Maybe she had no choice. Maybe she died after you were born.”
“Bridget. Enough.”
It makes me sad that she always ends the conversation there, but it’s her life, not mine. It’s just that now, with DNA testing, it’s possible to trace our ancestors and answer the questions that once seemed unanswerable. I would love to know more.
At this point, Grandma usually turns it around and asks about my love life, but I successfully skim past that tonight. Her mind is stuck on a man I went out with three years ago and haven’t seen since. I don’t really have much time for dating, and frankly, I don’t miss it that much. Claudia keeps me busy, and I spend time at the gym when I’m not reading or binge-watching the latest shows. I’m content. Not swept up in romance, but satisfied nonetheless.
Besides, I’m sure I could grab a date with good old Jack Samson if I wanted. He’s hot, but he knows it. I scowl, thinking of him. An unexpectedly warm thought comes to me of Mr. Buchanan, but I push it away. He’s probably not interested. Still, I can’t stop thinking about his careful smile, and how it fills his eyes.
“Drink your tea before it cools.” She sips her own. “Tell me what you are doing at work now. Light switches and fire alarms again?”
I give her a side-eye. “Those are obviously included, but there’s a lot more, Grandma.”
My phone vibrates with a text, but I ignore it and help myself to more rice. I’m off the clock, and the last person I want to talk with is Claudia.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asks.
“I wasn’t going to. I’m here with you.” Grandma’s expression makes me laugh. “Why? Do you want me to?”
“Your life is so much more interesting than mine, Bridget. Listening to your stories cheers me up.”
“Well, spending an evening with you cheers me up, so there.”
She heaves a deep sigh, then leans over her plate.
“Fine.” I pull my phone out. It’s not Claudia after all. Suddenly, I’m glad Grandma talked me into checking.
MB: Hello, Ms. Kelly. I found something interesting pertaining to our discussion today, and I wondered if you’d like to come by and see it tomorrow.
My heart lifts at the idea. I start to reply, then Mr. Buchanan’s text lights up again.
MB: Or maybe we could have a cup of coffee and I could bring the information? If you’re not too busy. No pressure.
I can almost picture him texting, frowning at the keys, sweating over the invitation. He’s charmingly awkward. I can’t leave him hanging.
BK: Coffee sounds nice. When?
MB: Tomorrow 11:00 a.m.? I can send you the coordinates for a coffee shop near here…
…
