We stand there for a moment, gazes holding, and I find myself rising up against the challenge.
“Nah, I’ll come in. I have plenty of time.”
With that, I’m crossing over the threshold and into what must be her grandmother’s room. It’s new, modern, and when I pass the bathroom, I see it’s outfitted with shining chrome supports and a wide, easy-entry shower. It smells like blueberry pie in here, warm and slightly sweet, like a late summer evening.
“Well,hellothere!”
When I get fully into the room, I come face-to-face with a woman in a recliner, the left side of her body leaned a bit over, her hand in a brace. The corner of her mouth is slightly turned down despite the smile that pulls up on the opposite side.
She has a little green blanket on her lap, and she’s wearing a pink dress with a white collar. Her makeup is done. A TV plays softly in the corner, and the place is well-decorated—nothing like a sterile hospital room. Instead, the surfaces are covered in doilies that look intricate and homemade. An array of pictures on the nightstand show various people posing and smiling. At a brief glance, I realize only one of them has a little girl who might be Wren.
A young Wren, maybe ten, smiling thinly at the camera, a reserved look on her face. Same nose, same cheekbones. It must be her.
“Gran,” Wren says, clearing her throat and gesturing to me. “This is Luca McKenzie. We work together at the Frost.”
Gran’s eyes widen, shifting from me to Wren fast enough that I get the sense I’ve been spoken about in this room before. I’masked to sit in the other armchair, given a shortbread, and pulled into a conversation with Gran while Wren sits quietly on the bed, legs crossed, eyes on me.
It makes something inside my chest tight.
Gran tells me about Wren and what she was like as a little girl, though I get the sense that there are some pieces missing there.
“Oh mygoodness,” Gran snorts, waving her hand. “You’d never met a girl so obsessed with gum.”
“Gra-an,” Wren laughs, embarrassed. “You don’t always have to tell this—”
“Oh, shush.” Gran waves her good hand impatiently, looking back to me. “First time we took her trick-or-treating, she was what? Maybe eight or so. And every single house, she’d say ‘Trick or treat, got gum?’ It was like her version of that milk ad! Too funny.”
I realize too late that I’m laughing, that this woman is charming me. I start to relax, finish my shortbread, and find myself enjoying the conversation. Wren and Gran talk easily, naturally.
“Dear, would you go to Nancy’s station an ask for that butterscotch pudding?”
Wren’s eyes narrow at her grandma, flitting to me for a second. “Gran, that’s all the way on the other side of the building.”
“But Nancy is the only one with butterscotch. You know that’s my favorite.”
They lock eyes and engage in a silent stand-off that I can’t quite read. I get the sense that Wren doesn’t want to leave me in the room with her grandmother.
“It will be fine,” Gran says, reaching over and patting my hand. Her skin is ultra-soft, thin, so I can see every vein creeping along under her age spots. “Luca will keep me company, right?”
I nod, glance at Wren, shifting uncomfortably. “Of course.”
With a sigh, she rises to her feet, shooting her Gran a look that I can’t quite decipher. Then she’s gone, and from the sound of her steps in the hallway, she’s walking fast.
“Okay,” Gran says, turning to me and fully taking my hand in hers. The gesture is sudden, intimate and surprising. When I look up into her eyes, I realize they contain the same kaleidoscope of colors as Wren’s but muted and in a different order. “We don’t have much time.”
For a split second, my heart lurches, and I wonder if she’s about to tell me the truth about Wren. That she really is taking advantage of her, blackmailing her somehow.
And she does tell me the truth.
“Wren won’t talk about it, and she won’t let on, but she hasn’t had a very easy life. Not a very good childhood,” Gran says, holding my gaze seriously. It’s one of the most surreal moments of my life, this woman I’ve only just met holding my hand, talking to me like this. I’m paralyzed by curiosity, respect for my elders. “I can tell she likes you. She likes that new job of hers. And I just know she’s going to think it’s too good to be true. She might even start sabotaging herself, just because she’s not used to things going her way. You don’t let her, okay? You’ve got to have her back for me, since I can’t leave this damn place.”
I blink, stunned at this omission, knowing for a fact that Wren would not be a fan of what her grandmother has just said. It’s all vague—hasn’t had a very easy life. I want to ask a million more questions.
What about her childhood? What happened to her? How does Gran know that she’s going to sabotage herself? Maybe I could bring up the phone call, or ask about her parole. Find the details that can help me make sense of everything.
But Gran drops my hand the moment Wren walks back in, holding her hand up, palm flat.
“Nancy didn’t have the butterscotch,” Wren grumbles, opening the pudding and eying her grandmother warily. Instead of handing her the pudding cup, Wren drags over the little side table, opens the pudding, tosses the wrapper, and puts a spoon in Gran’s good hand.
