My daughter is sleeping on her stomach, wrapped around a pillow. Before touching her shoulder, I raise the blinds. Sunlight makes the pink walls glimmer like the horizon of the bay at sunrise. “Katy-bear, the workers are here. Let’s pop out for breakfast and then visit Gram.”
She groans and rolls onto her back as if she suddenly weighs five hundred pounds. “Do I have to go? School starts next week. Can’t I sleep in?”
“Once the banging begins, you’ll hardly sleep anyway. But tomorrow you can try. Deal?”
“Fine.” She yawns with her entire body and groans before reaching for her phone to check her messages.
“I’ll fix you a coffee with cream and sugar for the ride.”
After a sleepy nod of approval, she whips her coverlet off and pushes up to a seated position before combing her hair away from her face with her fingers. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Her feet hit the floor, so I leave her alone and go tie my own curls into a ponytail and swipe on a bit of lipstick. By this point, two other men have arrived and are clambering around the kitchen and master bathroom with Dan.
While fixing Katy’s to-go cup, I study the painting that Dan admired. Like me at that age, it’s vibrant, brimming with life and hope. A subconscious kick in the pants, perhaps? The reminder of the woman buried somewhere beneath all these blues.
A drill shrieks from yonder, yanking me from my daze. If I had a job, I’d escape the dust and noise. But who would hire a housewife with a fine arts major and no marketable skills or work experience? Plus, Katy’s not yet settled. I’m a pro at school volunteering, which will help me evade all this noise and meet other moms in this community.
Katy appears wearing running shorts and a hoodie.
“Is that how you want to look when you see your great-grandmother?” Too late, I realize my brows have reached my hairline.
She narrows her gaze. “What’s the difference? Even if she hates my outfit, she won’t remember it for long.”
Some battles aren’t worth fighting, so I relent and save up for one that matters. Still, her attitude sucks. “That was rude. I hope this heartlessness is a phase.”
“Sorry.” It’s mumbled but, based on her flushed cheeks, sincere. Like her father, Katy doesn’t like to be wrong, so she struggles with apologies.
Dan emerges from the kitchen and heads toward the master bedroom.
“We’re leaving.” I snatch the white tin box, which could come in handy if Gram doesn’t remember us today, from the buffet. “You have my cell if you need me for anything.”
He lifts his gaze from the box in my hand. “Hope you get some answers.”
So do I.
The entrance to the Sandy Shores Care Center is protected by wrought iron gates and a guard. I roll down the window and show my ID before being waved through by a bored-looking young man who’s probably watching YouTube in that guardhouse.
“Well, at least it’s a fancy prison,” Katy remarks, having briefly raised her eyes from her phone to survey the facility. “I’d rather off myself than have people wipe my butt and shove pills down my throat.”
“Katy!” I scowl. “Needing a little help doesn’t mean that you can’t enjoy the sunrise, or a game of chess, or a pleasant conversation.”
“Chess?” She grimaces. “Like I said, pass the pills.”
Had I ever been that cynical? My mother probably wouldn’t tell me the truth if she were alive. She preferred rose-colored glasses to reality. Even at death’s door—having contracted Legionnaires’ weeks after a hike to natural hot springs in Colorado—she’d refused to accept the truth about her prognosis.
What she and Dad had first considered the flu got diagnosed too late for antibiotics to save her. I close my eyes against the memory of the bloody sputum, the high fever, the pained moans and diarrhea. Those were the most terrifying weeks of my life . . . At least they were until Katy started banging her head against walls.
But Gram’s present circumstances must be lonely. My dad made his regular excuses when I invited him to drive down to visit her with us this week. Gram’s sister, Lonna, died years ago from breast cancer, but her girls keep in touch with Gram by phone. I doubt any of them have actually visited since Gram’s eightieth birthday, though. Even I’d lapsed into substituting phone calls for real visits most of the year.
I sigh heavily enough to encompass my pity for everyone, including myself. Sliding a side-eye toward Katy, I say, “Please inform me when my real daughter reclaims her body.”
“Ha ha.” Another half-joking eye roll and then she’s back to swiping and typing.
Grandpa once said that when kids are little, they step on your toes, but when they are older, they step on your heart. It wasn’t until Katy turned fourteen—when the stakes of her choices rocketed to the stratosphere at the exact time she honed her ability to pinpoint my flaws and tender spots—that I fully understood his meaning.
I would ask if she’s nervous about soccer tryouts, but she might read my question as pressure, like I’d be disappointed if she doesn’t make varsity. Worse, my forcing her to think about it could increase her anxiety, which could make tryouts harder.
Instead, I read the wooden directional signs as we wind past the independent-living apartments to the assisted-living unit. This is my first time here. I hadn’t been able to help with the move because my dad had scheduled it on the day of my first divorce mediation meeting with Richard.
The manicured campus—with lush, neatly trimmed flower beds, an octagonal gazebo, and gulls flying overhead—resembles a seaside resort more than a care facility. The backside of Gram’s building probably offers distant views of the bay, too. As a child, I’d sometimes caught her sitting at the dining table, gazing out the window at the treetops and daydreaming. Today she might enjoy watching the sailboats from a quiet bench outside.
Katy misses all the scenery while staring at her phone, scrolling through a seemingly endless list of images, pausing only occasionally while her thumbs type at breakneck speed.
“Ready to ask Gram about the box?” I ask too brightly.
She twirls an index finger. “Woo-hoo.”
“Come on, Katy-bear.”
“I’m sixteen, Mom. Katy-bear went into lifelong hibernation at least eight years ago.” She sticks her phone in her pocket.
“You’ll always be my baby.” I turn off the ignition, recalling that once-toothless grin and the sticky-fingered hugs of yesteryear as if they happened this morning. “What’s got you so rapt by your Insta feed?”
“Snapchat . . . ,” she intones, like I’m an alien who can’t keep up with a single trend. Which, I suppose, is sort of true. “My friends are comparing what classes and teachers they got.”
She begins to twist a section of her hair around her index finger until the tip turns white.
“They start tomorrow, right? At least you have an extra week of summer.” I flash a hopeful smile.
She tucks her chin and shoots me a pleading look. “Please stop begging me to be happy. Your ‘lemonade from lemons’ speeches don’t make me miss my friends and old school less. And I’ll still be the ‘weird girl’ from the city when school starts here.”