“This is Abby Brennan. We met a few months ago?”
My mind is blank. I’m silent.
“You came to my house? You were looking for your grandmother, Jo Lane?”
“Oh, yes,” I lie into the phone. I have no clue. This was not in my notes. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” the woman says kindly. I can hear a child’s voice in the background, singing a song about snakes on parade. “Chelsea, Mommy’s on the phone, honey. Sorry about that, London.”
I can’t hear the little girl’s response, but I don’t hear the snake song anymore, either.
“No problem.”
“Anyway, I’m calling because I remembered the name of your grandmother’s retirement home in the city. It’s been driving me crazy for months, and finally this week it came to me.”
My stomach tightens into knots. I’ve been reading notes all morning; how did I miss this?
“Oh, really?” I say to the woman, hoping to sound casual.
“Yes, it’s called Lingering Pines.”
“That’s great,” I say robotically, even as my mind spins out of control.
“Yes, well, I just wanted to let you know. When you speak to her, please tell Jo that the house is being well taken care of. Give her our best.”
“I will,” I say mindlessly before telling the woman good-bye and hanging up the phone.
In the remaining forty-five minutes before school, I carefully dress, apply makeup, and flat-iron my hair, all the while pondering what just happened.
Somehow, I clearly managed to figure out that my grandmother’s name is Jo Lane. Then, apparently I went to Abby Brennan’s house looking for said grandmother. And now, I guess that my grandmother, Jo Lane, is in a nursing home.
Called Lingering Pines.
In the city.
What I don’t get is, why? Why wouldn’t I chronicle all of this for myself?
All I can fathom as I apply a top layer of lip gloss is that when I researched my grandmother, I felt that I’d come up empty. All I can rationalize is that I didn’t want to torture myself with knowing that I failed. All I can figure is that I gave up.
But now I have the name of my grandmother’s nursing home. I can contact her, if I want to. And she might lead me to my father.
Looking in the mirror, I smile at my reflection. I feel powerful with this new information, with my stick-straight hair; long, dark lashes; and fitted black button-down.
And feeling powerful is a good thing, because apparently there’s a boy in my life who needs to be reminded to never, ever wrong me again.
“What are your plans for tonight?” my mom asks hours later at dinner.
“I don’t know,” I say, avoiding direct eye contact. “Maybe I’ll watch a movie.”
Really, I can’t wait to Google Lingering Pines and call to confirm that my grandmother is a resident. After that, who knows?
“I shouldn’t be too late,” Mom says. “It’s only two houses.”
I shrug; she can stay out all night for all I care.
“I bought some popcorn,” Mom offers, trying a little too hard.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, scooping up the last of my peas and wishing she’d leave already, or at least stop watching me eat. I give her a broad, cheesy (fake) smile that, thankfully, she buys. Mom walks across the room, kisses the top of my head, and grabs her keys.