read.”
Yes. So long ago. In a world before Dr. Singh and cancer and death, I had been a serious and avid reader,a frequent checker-outer at the library. It was a part of my life I’d forgotten about until that moment, until she’d gone and given it back to me, like a gift. “How many books has she read?” I asked, pointing to the TV.
“Oh I don’t know, honey pie. Dang it, I can’t remember. Maybe a million. Oh my memory is terrible. Come sit down and watch with me.”
I pulled up a chair, but I wasn’t really interested in watching. I’d come here on a mission. Sally Bedford. Sally Bedford. Sally Bedford. And I didn’t want to leave Ryan waiting outside too long. So I just decided to blurt it out. “Grandma,” I said.
“What, honey pie?”
“Can I ask you something about my dad?”
She turned her eyes from the TV to me, and her eyes looked way too deep and intense for the eyes of a person who was half missing behind them. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?” she said.
It was a relief to hear her say it, to hear her remember, to not have to dance around the obvious, make up an excuse, or lie. I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “He is.”
“How did it happen? How did he die?”
“Cancer,” I said.
“My memory is terrible.” She shook her head. “Mymemory is just so bad.” She reached for my hand, and when I gave it to her, she squeezed it.
“A few months ago when I was here, I asked you about Dad’s old girlfriends, and you said something about Sally Bedford. Who was she?”
“Oh, honey pie”—she let go of my hand and leaned it on her forehead as if she had developed a terrible migraine—“did I really say that?”
I nodded.
“You know my memory is terrible. I can’t remember saying that.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s okay. We all forget things.” It was a lame attempt to make her feel better and I knew it, but there were only so many times I could nod and smile when she told me how forgetful she was before I felt the need to try to make her feel better. “But Grandma, who was she? How did Dad know her?”
She grabbed my hand again, and she squeezed it really tight. “Honey pie, sometimes it’s better to forget.”
Ryan was lying on a half wall next to our bikes, sunning himself when I walked out. He had his sunglasses on, so it was hard to tell if he was napping or daydreaming. “Hey, get up.” I pushed his leg a little bit, and he sat up.“Are you up for a ride?”
“Well, duh. I’m here aren’t I?”
“No, I mean a real ride. I’m going to Charles and Large.”
“Mel, you can’t be serious.”
“What?” I shrugged. It couldn’t be more than another five miles or so to Charles and Large, and we’d already come this far. We could do it. I thought briefly about my aunt Julie napping in my father’s study and the fact that my mother might beat me home, but then I pushed those thoughts aside. I was going to find Sally, and I was going to find her today.
He sighed and hopped back on his bike. “What is so damn important at Charles and Large?”
“I’ll tell you once I figure it out,” I said.
So we pedaled across flat and gridded streets until we got closer to the center of town. I kept pedaling even when my legs were tired, even when I heard Ryan’s breathing, thick and heavy behind me, but I stopped when he stopped, when he pulled out the inhaler and sucked on it, hard. “We’re almost there,” I said.
“Mel, I don’t think I can do it.” His voice sounded raspy.
“You can.”
“But I’ll never make it home.”
“We’ll call Ashley to pick us up and we’ll come back for our bikes in the morning.” I was inventing a plan on the spot, not really thinking it through enough to realize that Ashley might not come for us, that she might not even answer if we called her. But I kept pedaling. Because I had to, because I needed to know.
And then at last I saw it there, over the horizon, the big Charles and Large sign with the logo that
Yes. So long ago. In a world before Dr. Singh and cancer and death, I had been a serious and avid reader,a frequent checker-outer at the library. It was a part of my life I’d forgotten about until that moment, until she’d gone and given it back to me, like a gift. “How many books has she read?” I asked, pointing to the TV.
“Oh I don’t know, honey pie. Dang it, I can’t remember. Maybe a million. Oh my memory is terrible. Come sit down and watch with me.”
I pulled up a chair, but I wasn’t really interested in watching. I’d come here on a mission. Sally Bedford. Sally Bedford. Sally Bedford. And I didn’t want to leave Ryan waiting outside too long. So I just decided to blurt it out. “Grandma,” I said.
“What, honey pie?”
“Can I ask you something about my dad?”
She turned her eyes from the TV to me, and her eyes looked way too deep and intense for the eyes of a person who was half missing behind them. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?” she said.
It was a relief to hear her say it, to hear her remember, to not have to dance around the obvious, make up an excuse, or lie. I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “He is.”
“How did it happen? How did he die?”
“Cancer,” I said.
“My memory is terrible.” She shook her head. “Mymemory is just so bad.” She reached for my hand, and when I gave it to her, she squeezed it.
“A few months ago when I was here, I asked you about Dad’s old girlfriends, and you said something about Sally Bedford. Who was she?”
“Oh, honey pie”—she let go of my hand and leaned it on her forehead as if she had developed a terrible migraine—“did I really say that?”
I nodded.
“You know my memory is terrible. I can’t remember saying that.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s okay. We all forget things.” It was a lame attempt to make her feel better and I knew it, but there were only so many times I could nod and smile when she told me how forgetful she was before I felt the need to try to make her feel better. “But Grandma, who was she? How did Dad know her?”
She grabbed my hand again, and she squeezed it really tight. “Honey pie, sometimes it’s better to forget.”
Ryan was lying on a half wall next to our bikes, sunning himself when I walked out. He had his sunglasses on, so it was hard to tell if he was napping or daydreaming. “Hey, get up.” I pushed his leg a little bit, and he sat up.“Are you up for a ride?”
“Well, duh. I’m here aren’t I?”
“No, I mean a real ride. I’m going to Charles and Large.”
“Mel, you can’t be serious.”
“What?” I shrugged. It couldn’t be more than another five miles or so to Charles and Large, and we’d already come this far. We could do it. I thought briefly about my aunt Julie napping in my father’s study and the fact that my mother might beat me home, but then I pushed those thoughts aside. I was going to find Sally, and I was going to find her today.
He sighed and hopped back on his bike. “What is so damn important at Charles and Large?”
“I’ll tell you once I figure it out,” I said.
So we pedaled across flat and gridded streets until we got closer to the center of town. I kept pedaling even when my legs were tired, even when I heard Ryan’s breathing, thick and heavy behind me, but I stopped when he stopped, when he pulled out the inhaler and sucked on it, hard. “We’re almost there,” I said.
“Mel, I don’t think I can do it.” His voice sounded raspy.
“You can.”
“But I’ll never make it home.”
“We’ll call Ashley to pick us up and we’ll come back for our bikes in the morning.” I was inventing a plan on the spot, not really thinking it through enough to realize that Ashley might not come for us, that she might not even answer if we called her. But I kept pedaling. Because I had to, because I needed to know.
And then at last I saw it there, over the horizon, the big Charles and Large sign with the logo that
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