Within Arm's Reach by Ann Napolitano Page B

are the exact shade of my mother’s eyes, and my firstborn daughter’s. The realization jars me—how could I not have noticed that before?—but only for a moment. I push the feeling away.
    I cross my legs, right over left. Even with only one foot on the floor, there is no dizziness. That is good, as I have only started to say what I came to say. “Gracie, are you planning to marry Joel?”
    Gracie takes a letter out of her pocket and grips it with both hands. “Why would you think— Joel and I broke up.”
    “You’re planning to raise this child by yourself?”
    She blinks hard, like a child pushing back tears. I have to remind myself that Gracie’s twenty-nine years old. She looks half that. “How did you—”
    “I bore nine children myself. I know what a pregnant woman looks like.” I am happy with the timber of my voice: confident, steady, clear. I sound like the woman Patrick married because she was nearly always right. I recognize myself, and that feels wonderful. “You must need money. How much should I give you right now? We can work out a schedule of payments for the future.”
    “Gram, I’m going to figure that out for myself. I have a lot that I need to figure out. I don’t expect you to fix this for me.” And now Gracie is crying; fat tears run down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Gram. I know I must be a disappointment to you. You think I’m indecisive. . . . I never wanted . . .”
    “Don’t go losing your head, Gracie. No tears. What’s done is done. I’ll write you a check and you and the baby will be able to live comfortably. I’ll help you.”
    Gracie seems to notice the letter in her hands for the first time. She folds it carefully and puts it in her pocket. “I have a system for my letters,” she says. “The right pocket of my bathrobe is for trivial letters, the ones with small, easy questions. The left pocket is for the tougher situations, things like depression and bereavement.”
    “I don’t give a fig about the damn letters,” I say.
    I have always thought that Gracie’s job was ludicrous. People should keep their problems to themselves. The very idea of publishing your concerns, much less your family’s problems, in the local newspaper is reprehensible. I am embarrassed for those women who in times of need turn to a perfect stranger instead of turning to God. And I am not pleased that Gracie thinks she can help these strangers. It is like volunteering to captain a lifeboat that is stranded with no oars in the middle of the ocean. These women are clearly past help. It is a losing battle and my granddaughter will lose right along with them.
    Gracie says in a pleading tone, “You can lecture me if you want, Gram. I don’t mind. I know you must think this is very irresponsible of me, even immoral. I just want you to understand.”
    “What exactly do you want me to understand?”
    My granddaughter’s cheeks are shining, but the tears have stopped. “Why don’t you think I can do this? How can you be so sure?”
    I reach into my purse and pull out the checkbook. “Obviously I wish you would have waited until you were married, but I do not believe in ending pregnancies. I am going to take care of you and this child. I am going to help you steer your life in an appropriate direction. I’m not going to sit back and watch you bounce from boyfriend to boyfriend anymore, Gracie. I’m not going to watch you wander through your life without a plan. This baby will be well cared for and loved, and you will be back on your feet, if it is the last thing I do. You will both be safe.”
    Gracie seems to struggle for a minute for words, then says in a blank voice, “Okay.”
    “Now, before I leave, I’m sure you have expenses like doctor’s visits and vitamins that you need to pay for in the near future. How much shall I write the first check for?”
    Gracie, tiny in her bathrobe, shakes her head. “I can’t . . . I have no . . .”
    “I can’t talk to you, Gracie, if you