Chapter 7: What Lucy Already Knew
Saturday arrived with the kind of October light that turns everything slightly golden and makes even ordinary things look worth pausing for.
Ben came through my front door like a small, cheerful hurricane, immediately announcing that he had lost another tooth and that the tooth fairy had left him two dollars, which he considered an insult.
"Two dollars," he said, climbing onto the kitchen stool.
"Grandma.
Two dollars."
"That is a very specific grievance," I said.
"My friend Marcus got five."
"Marcus may have a more negotiable tooth fairy."
He considered this as though it were actionable information.
Lucy came in behind him, quieter than usual.
She had her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm even though she was eight and generally considered public rabbit-carrying to be beneath her dignity.
She set it on the couch and came into the kitchen and sat beside her brother without saying much.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye while I made hot chocolate.
Ben had moved on to a detailed explanation of a disagreement he'd had at school involving a soccer ball and what he described as a clear violation of the rules, though the rules were somewhat flexible in his telling.
Lucy waited until he had gone to the living room to investigate whether my television had any channels worth his attention.
Then she said, quietly: "Did Renata call you?"
I turned around from the stove.
"She messaged me," I said.
"Yes."
Lucy looked at the countertop.
"I didn't know if that was okay.
To give her your name."
"It was okay."
"I looked through Dad's old emails.
I remembered her from a photo once, when I was really little.
Mom's sister." She picked at the edge of the stool.
"I didn't tell them I did it."
"I know."
"Are you mad?"
I brought the hot chocolate over and set it in front of her.
"I'm not mad.
I'm very glad you reached out to someone you trusted."
She looked up.
"I didn't know if I trusted her.
I just didn't know who else to ask."
"Sometimes that's how it works," I said.
"You reach toward the person you think might listen."
She wrapped both hands around the mug.
"Is everything going to be okay?
With you and Mom and Dad?"
I sat down across from her.
"Your dad and I talked this week.
We're going to be fine."
"And Mom?"
I chose my words carefully.
"Your mom and dad are working some things out.
That's between them.
It doesn't change how much either of them loves you."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Grandma.
Mom cried after you left.
On Friday.
I heard her through the wall."
I kept my face steady.
"I'm sorry that night was hard for everyone."
"She didn't sound sad-crying." Lucy frowned slightly.
"She sounded like — scared-crying.
Like when something goes differently than you thought it would."
Eight years old.
Enormous brown eyes.
Noticing everything.
"Lucy," I said carefully, "you don't need to figure grown-up feelings out.
That's not your job."
"I know." She took a sip of hot chocolate.
Left a small mark on her upper lip.
"I just notice things."
"I know you do."
She set the mug down.
"I'm glad you didn't stop loving us when you left."
My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with hurt.
"I told you.
That never changes.
Not ever."
"I know." She picked up the mug again.
"I just needed to hear it again."
Ben reappeared in the doorway holding my television remote with the expression of a man who has encountered a technical obstacle beyond his reasoning.
"Grandma.
How do you get to the cartoons on this thing?
It has too many buttons."
I stood up.
"Come here," I said.
"I'll show you."
He handed over the remote and leaned against my arm while I found the right input.
Lucy followed us to the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor with her rabbit and her hot chocolate, and for the next hour the only sounds in the apartment were cartoons and Ben's occasional heated commentary on the plot.
I sat in my chair.
My own chair.
My own apartment.
My plants, watered.
My coffee, in my own cup.
And my two grandchildren, on my own couch, on a Saturday morning that belonged entirely to me.
May you like
The afternoon was mine to give.
And I gave it freely, which was the only way it had ever meant anything at all.
