wander for an instant—as though picturing Gia and Nana sitting together looking at the photo album wasn't reckless enough—to picturing the photos themselves. Which is not to say it wasn't Larry's fault that I ended up smack in the 1950s.
"Larry, you ought to be flushed down a toilet," I muttered.
Eleni—Nana—raised her eyebrows at me. Her dark-colored, young eyebrows. Nana's name was
Helen,
not
Eleni,
but how could I not have recognized
her? I'd seen pictures of her as a child and as a young woman, but I always thought of Nana as she'd always looked to me. Now here she was with her skin un-wrinkled; her shoulder-length hair bouncy and dark rather than in the short, permed, and gray style which was all I'd ever known; and she was slim, though for as long back as I could remember, she'd always been a bit ... roundish. The aides at the nursing home were always saying how attractive she'd been as a young woman, but—as much as I loved her—to me she was attractive in a grandmotherly way, not as the kind of girl who would turn heads at her high school. Yet here she was every bit as gorgeous as Tiffanie Mills—and I mean on one of Tiffanie's good days.
Now, my young grandmother was looking at me with worry in her eyes, and she assured me, "Help will be here soon."
"I don't need help," I told her. Well, I did, but not the kind she meant. I could hear the faintest wail of a siren approaching. That was the last thing I needed: to be taken off to a hospital, to have people start asking questions. I scrambled to my feet. "I've got to get out of here," I said.
"No, it's okay," Eleni said. she tugged on my arm to try to get me to sit down again. "The ambulance will be here in another two minutes."
Which was exactly the point.
Eleni seemed to realize that. She tipped her head and looked at me quizzically. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"I've got to get out of here," I repeated.
Again the eyebrows went up. But what she asked was, "Are you sure? You may well have hit your head when you fell, and someone should take a look at that knee in case you need stitches."
She must have seen my answer in my expression.
"Well," she said, "obviously I can't just let you run off all alone after that brush with death," which sounded like the prelude to an argument with me. But instead, she swept to her feet. "Come on this way, then." She took my arm and hustled me down the front path to the sidewalk.
"Doing all right?" she asked, and—when I nodded—she led me down the street, around the corner, down another street, around another corner. Her heels made a rapid
click, click, click
on the sidewalk, a sound that brought back memories of when I'd been much younger and she'd been well and active, a sound I associated with her, because I pretty much live in sneakers and my mother wears flats—my father as well as her current husband being on the short side. Despite her heels, it was me, with my sore knee, who had trouble keeping up.
"There's a little park on the next block," Eleni said.
It was the first time I realized where we were, since the park—one of those urban, one-block affairs with a few trees, two benches, one drinking fountain, and a statue of some Civil War guy—is still there today, three blocks from where Nana used to live. Which, by the way—thank you very much, Larry—is nowhere near Westfall Nursing Home.
"Sure, I remember this place," I said, squinting as I looked around, and had the sense not to add,
You used to bring me here when I was a little kid.
Eleni sat me down on one of the benches, then tugged at the hole in my jeans to get a peek at my knee. "I think," she told me, "once you stop moving, it'll stop bleeding." She gave me an of-course-that-is-not-to-say-I-approve look. From her pocket, she got a handkerchief—not a tissue, but an embroidered cloth handkerchief—which she proclaimed as being "mostly clean," and went to moisten it at the fountain.
As soon as she was out of hearing, I whispered fiercely,
"Larry, you ought to be flushed down a toilet," I muttered.
Eleni—Nana—raised her eyebrows at me. Her dark-colored, young eyebrows. Nana's name was
Helen,
not
Eleni,
but how could I not have recognized
her? I'd seen pictures of her as a child and as a young woman, but I always thought of Nana as she'd always looked to me. Now here she was with her skin un-wrinkled; her shoulder-length hair bouncy and dark rather than in the short, permed, and gray style which was all I'd ever known; and she was slim, though for as long back as I could remember, she'd always been a bit ... roundish. The aides at the nursing home were always saying how attractive she'd been as a young woman, but—as much as I loved her—to me she was attractive in a grandmotherly way, not as the kind of girl who would turn heads at her high school. Yet here she was every bit as gorgeous as Tiffanie Mills—and I mean on one of Tiffanie's good days.
Now, my young grandmother was looking at me with worry in her eyes, and she assured me, "Help will be here soon."
"I don't need help," I told her. Well, I did, but not the kind she meant. I could hear the faintest wail of a siren approaching. That was the last thing I needed: to be taken off to a hospital, to have people start asking questions. I scrambled to my feet. "I've got to get out of here," I said.
"No, it's okay," Eleni said. she tugged on my arm to try to get me to sit down again. "The ambulance will be here in another two minutes."
Which was exactly the point.
Eleni seemed to realize that. She tipped her head and looked at me quizzically. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"I've got to get out of here," I repeated.
Again the eyebrows went up. But what she asked was, "Are you sure? You may well have hit your head when you fell, and someone should take a look at that knee in case you need stitches."
She must have seen my answer in my expression.
"Well," she said, "obviously I can't just let you run off all alone after that brush with death," which sounded like the prelude to an argument with me. But instead, she swept to her feet. "Come on this way, then." She took my arm and hustled me down the front path to the sidewalk.
"Doing all right?" she asked, and—when I nodded—she led me down the street, around the corner, down another street, around another corner. Her heels made a rapid
click, click, click
on the sidewalk, a sound that brought back memories of when I'd been much younger and she'd been well and active, a sound I associated with her, because I pretty much live in sneakers and my mother wears flats—my father as well as her current husband being on the short side. Despite her heels, it was me, with my sore knee, who had trouble keeping up.
"There's a little park on the next block," Eleni said.
It was the first time I realized where we were, since the park—one of those urban, one-block affairs with a few trees, two benches, one drinking fountain, and a statue of some Civil War guy—is still there today, three blocks from where Nana used to live. Which, by the way—thank you very much, Larry—is nowhere near Westfall Nursing Home.
"Sure, I remember this place," I said, squinting as I looked around, and had the sense not to add,
You used to bring me here when I was a little kid.
Eleni sat me down on one of the benches, then tugged at the hole in my jeans to get a peek at my knee. "I think," she told me, "once you stop moving, it'll stop bleeding." She gave me an of-course-that-is-not-to-say-I-approve look. From her pocket, she got a handkerchief—not a tissue, but an embroidered cloth handkerchief—which she proclaimed as being "mostly clean," and went to moisten it at the fountain.
As soon as she was out of hearing, I whispered fiercely,
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