“I’ll call her,” I offered, then took approximately three steps across the tile floor before dramatically shouting, “MAISIE! DINNER!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Erica flinch.
“COMING!” my sister called back, along with, “WILL YOU DO MY NAILS TONIGHT?”
Bryce groaned. “You guys are soloud.”
Five minutes later, we took our unofficially assigned seats at the kitchen table. Swede followed suit and stretched out beneath us, resting his blocky head on my feet. The twins raved about their mac and cheese, and I thanked their mom for tossing a salad big enough for two. “You’re welcome,” she said, and after letting Maisie fill me in on first grade gossip—Violet P. thought her fish sticks tasted weird at lunch and then later threw up all over their science experiment—Erica spoke up again. “Olivia, how are Quincy and Gwen doing?”
“Good,” I said. Quincy and Gwen were my best friends, but unlike me, a gap year hadn’t been in their plans. With freshman year now in the books, they both had internships in New York for the summer. I’d helped them move into their apartment over Memorial Day Weekend last week. “They’re taking the train to Ocean City for the Fourth. Gwen’s parents rented a house.”
“Oh, right.” Erica took a sip of water. “I knew that. Chris ran into Gwen’s mom at Acme.”
I inwardly sighed. It was alwaysChris, notyour dad. It sounded like I wasn’t his daughter; instead, I was just some adult who lived with them. An au pair, perhaps.
Maisie hiccupped, a much-too-fast eater like Swede. “So where did we land on the whole painting-my-nails thing?”
I mustered up a smile. “What color?”
* * *
After letting Maisie dig through my stash and painting her tiny fingernails an Essie shade of hot pink called “blushin’ & crushin’,” I took a shower and then found Swede curled up in my room. He always started the night in his plush dog bed, but like clockwork, when it got to be around midnight, he’d invite himself into my bed and snuggle up next to me. He was, to use the technical term, a “Velcro dog.”
“Don’t look,” I joked before I untied my bathrobe and changed into my new pajamas. A pale pink sleep set covered in flamingos and palm fronds.
I’d gotten my love for pj’s from my grandmother. She always wore a fun pair when I slept over at my grandparents’ town house as a little kid. My favorite was the silky blue-white-and-gold checkerboard pair. Very luxurious, very Annie.
There was a framed photo of her on the bookcase near Swede’s bed; she was eighteen at her high school formal, wearing a Grace Kelly–esque white dress. It was a total glamour shot, and after a quick glance at my own prom photo, I admit itwasa little eerie how much I resembled Annie. While my eyes were hazel and hers deep blue, we had the same wavy blond hair, our lips were shaped the same (a “Cupid’s bow,” my grandfather had loved to say), and our eyebrows had the same intrigued arch.
Despite my room being tiny, I had two walk-in cedar closets—one was for my wardrobe while the other now stored some of Annie’s stuff. Most of her belongings were in a storage unit near Elkins, since she’d downsized to a single room. We didn’thave space in our house for all her furniture, but Erica suggested we keep everything for now; some pieces were family heirlooms and others could furnish an apartment someday. “Whose apartment?” I’d deadpanned, because how often did she fantasize about me moving out? Was it secretly marked on her calendar? I knew she was being pragmatic, but it just rubbed me the wrong way.
I switched on the light in the second closet, then sat crisscross-applesauce on the needlepointed rug that used to sit in front of Annie’s town house fireplace. She’d stitched it herself, white with intricate springtime flowers and a green border. “Needlepointing is cheaper than therapy!” she often said, though I never understood what she needed therapy for. She’d lived a wondrous life.
Lives, I corrected myself.She’s still living life.
It just wasn’t so wondrous anymore.
I usually hid in the closet after my Elkins visits, looking through Annie’s old record collection—she loved opera, especiallyLa traviata—or admiring her jewelry and precious little trinkets. Once I’d put on one of her favorite winter coats and found a grocery list in a pocket.Dark chocolatehad been the first item, written in her elegant penmanship. My eyes had stung; Annie couldn’t write anymore. Thanks to her dementia, she could barely spell her name.
Maybe it was a little embarrassing, but the closet comforted me. It felt likeAnniewas comforting me, the grandmother who had helped raise me and who I so fiercely loved and wasn’t readyto lose. I only saw glimmers of that woman at Elkins, and they were becoming few and far between.
She’s still here, I half-lied to myself.She’s still around.
Three
Friday was my day off, so I took Swede on a long run around Haddonfield before looping home to regroup for my Elkins visit. Per her calendar, Erica had lunch with friends, but I didn’t realize her plans were tohosther fellow elementary school moms, rather than rendezvous at the Bistro in town. Three extra cars were parked in our driveway, and I heard my stepmother’s voice almost as soon as I reached for the kitchen door’s knob. Someone hadn’t closed it all the way, leaving it ajar. “Yes, I don’t really know what to do with her,” Erica was saying. “She seems to have lost all her drive and sense of direction.” Pause. “It’s awful, but I’m sort of dreading everyone seeing her next month.”
My pulse skipped a step. Was she talking aboutme?
Swede whined to go inside. I scratched behind his ears, as if to say,Shh, one second.
“But she’s wonderful at the bookstore,” one of her friends said—Hilary, who loved any and all novels set in London. “She might not bechallengingherself, but at least she’s working hard and keeping busy.”
“What does Chris think?” a second friend asked.
Erica ignored her, seemingly lost in thought. “I mean, my sisterstillcan’t believe we let her defer Northwestern…”
I gritted my teeth as Swede pawed at the door. This time I took his cue, and while my dog dashed over to his water bowl, I zeroed in on Erica and her friends. They looked like an aspirational stay-at-home foursome, sitting at our kitchen table together with a huge spread of food accessorized by Simon Pearce water goblets and blue-and-white MacKenzie-Childs plates. (Erica had gotten the entire Royal Check dinnerware set in exchange for an Instagram promo Reel.) “Really, Erica?” I asked. “You still don’t get it? You still don’t get me?”
