“Or the interesting, beautiful new girl in town.”
“I just asked you to stop,” she says.
“Sorry.” I grab the tin box between us. “Do me a huge favor for the next thirty minutes: pretend to like me and be sweet to Gram. This is a scary time for her, and maybe we can make it a little easier.”
As soon as those words slip past my lips, I brace for her to misread my comment as dismissive of her worries. She surprises me by not popping off with defensive remarks. “How much does she remember?”
“I’m not sure. She has good days and bad ones, but wanted to move out before she hurt herself or someone else.”
Always responsible. She taught me the value of doing the right thing at a young age. “Remember you aren’t the only one who pays the consequences of bad choices—everyone who loves you will feel pain when you suffer.” I’ll never forget the grave look on her face when she told me that—right after I’d singed all my eyelashes from pouring kerosene on hot charcoals—like it was the most important advice she would ever give me. It crosses my mind anytime I’m about to take a risk.
“So she’ll remember us?” Katy asks.
“She should.” Of course, it’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve spoken with her. I have no idea what today might bring.
We sign in at the security desk and then are asked to wait in the reception area until we can be taken to her room.
“It smells funny,” Katy whispers.
“Antiseptic,” I agree. Although relatively new construction, it’s all very generic—sand- and cream-colored paints, laminate flooring, cheap hollow doors and fixtures. Even so, it’s nicer than the facility Richard’s mother was in last year for a month of rehab following spinal surgery. One whiff of the putrid mush it served prompted me to bring her meals four days each week so she wouldn’t lose weight. Lauren doesn’t strike me as the overly attentive type, so his mother might be out of luck next time. I wonder if Richard will notice or care.
Shaking off that self-pity, I return to the present. Skylights brighten the reception area and keep the myriad potted plants alive. We sink onto the comfortable beige leather sofa. Katy kicks her feet a bit while half-heartedly leafing through a People magazine, reading gossip about celebrities I’ve never heard of.
I use the quiet moment to collect myself before facing Gram.
My summers in Potomac Point rush back. Grandpa, a chemistry teacher, had happily devoted his summers to taking me fishing and to drive-in movies. He and Gram indulged me with weekly visits to Dream Cream for banana splits. Most important, Gram had encouraged me to paint and draw, while Grandpa got me to read some of the classics, which we’d talk about while toasting marshmallows.
Gram also loved playing board games, baking cookies, and watching Wheel of Fortune. Honestly, sometimes I’d wished I could’ve lived here year-round because their house felt more like a home than my own after my mom was no longer there playing the piano, or giving me manicures, or putting fresh flowers around the house.
Looking back, I think my dad retreated into fixing things like the toaster or tinkering in his garage to avoid the quiet house, too, convinced he was doing his duty by keeping a roof over my head and food in my stomach. The fact that I look like my mom might’ve been a painful reminder, too, but I never asked.
Katy might feel smothered by my love and attention sometimes, but that has to beat her feeling overlooked.
“Anne Chase?” A stout nurse with flamboyant red hair has come to stand beside the sofa.
Hearing Richard’s surname rattles me for a second. The world doesn’t need two Mrs. Richard Chases. Changing my legal name back to Anne Sullivan should leapfrog to the top of my to-do list.
“Yes.”
“I’m Clara. I’ll take you to see your grandmother now.” She beckons Katy, who tosses the magazine back on the coffee table and stands, as do I.
“Thank you, Clara.” We follow her down the long hallway to the left.
Clara raps on the door before opening it.
“Miss Marie, you’ve got some visitors today,” Clara says as we enter Gram’s room—number 123, like her old street address—an end unit with corner windows and natural light. It’s basically a large studio space with a full-size bed, a private handicap-accessible bathroom, and a breakfast bar area with a coffee maker, mini fridge, and small microwave.
The fading needlepoint carpet that used to be in Gram’s bedroom plants a little ache in my heart. No matter how stoic a person, moving out of one’s home at eighty-eight must be disconcerting.
Clara partly closes the door on her way out of the room.
Gram is seated in Grandpa’s old lounge chair, which she brought here along with another moderately comfortable chair, both of which face a television placed in a small entertainment center. Above her bed is a watercolor of the bay I’d painted in 1997 that Gram had made me sign before she had it mounted and framed. I flatten my hand over my chest. Not terrible for a fourteen-year-old experimenting with wash techniques.
Gram looks up from the television as if we’re nonthreatening strangers. Wispy short white hair curls away from her face. Her misty eyes squeeze my heart.
“What’s wrong, Gram?” I cross the room to hug her, at which point the baby powder and hairspray scents steep me in nostalgia. Her bony frame might as well be a collection of toothpicks in my arms. I grasp her hands gently, fearful of hurting her tissue-thin skin. Thick shame about how long it’s been since my last visit wedges itself in my throat.
I snatch a tissue from the box beside her and hand it to her.
She waves it off. “Those won’t help.”
“What will?” I take a seat, still holding the tissue. Katy is frozen behind me, waiting for instructions, so I gesture for her to hang tight.
“Nothing.” Gram’s voice is harsh, like she’s mad at us because she’s confused yet forced to cover her uncertainty.
Her cognitive deficiencies first surfaced around her eightieth birthday, although she masked them as long as she could. Once she hit stage 6 (or middle dementia), the doctor suggested that she move to a facility for constant care and supervision. He also told us to brace for paranoia, delusions, and more pronounced memory loss.
“How are you today?” I try.
“Same as always.” She waves a hand. “Trapped here. Punished again.”
“This isn’t a punishment. You wanted to be someplace safe.” At least she didn’t fight her doctor or my dad.
“Don’t get cute, Lonna.” There’s no mistaking that resentful tone. “You think you’re better than me, but you were just lucky that you never wanted anything of your own.”
Lonna is dead, so she can’t illuminate this conversation. But I’m stunned, having had no idea there’d been animosity between them.
“I’m not your sister, Gram. It’s me, Annie,” I say, hoping to spark some recognition. “Bobby’s daughter.”
No one else calls my father by that name. Robert Sullivan, a civil engineer for the city of Baltimore. A taciturn man who probably would not answer to “Bobby” these days.
Dozens of angry wrinkles smooth as she fights to make sense of my words.
“Do you recognize Katy?” I nod toward my daughter. “She’s growing up quickly.”