“I guess I’d better get going, then. Have a good night, sweetie. Let’s do something fun tomorrow, just us girls, okay?” She pauses by the door to the garage, waiting.
“Okay, Mom,” I say reassuringly so she’ll leave. Seconds later, it works.
Hastily, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher before skipping up the stairs and waking up my computer from sleep mode. In less than a minute, not only do I have the number for Lingering Pines, but I’m halfway through the photo gallery of images of its sweeping grounds, happy residents, and well-maintained facilities. Though I assume that the people in the pictures are models, I carefully inspect each photo just in case, then print the main page and some of the photos for reminders.
I have the jitters as I ponder what I’m about to do. Step one: find Grandma. Step two: find Dad.
Before I have the chance to talk myself out of it, I open my cell phone and dial the main number for Lingering Pines. The tone sounds long and lonely. I picture a dated phone waiting unattended, its shrill call going unnoticed over too-loud TVs shouting from the patients’ rooms.
I wish for a receptionist to pick up the second before she does. Except that it’s a recording telling me that Lingering Pines is closed, and to please call again tomorrow or dial one for the nurse’s station.
Apparently the elderly residents of Lingering Pines Retirement Community are only open for business between the hours of 8:00 AM and 5:00 PM daily.
Feeling that this isn’t earth-shattering enough to disturb a nurse, I hang up. I store the number in my contacts, allowing myself to imagine for a moment what it would be like to have a grandmother to call and visit sometimes.
Later, long after I’ve left high school behind, I will envy my friend Margaret’s relationship with her grandmother. I will cry when she dies of cancer, not because I’ll know her that well but because I’ll see Margaret lose a little piece of herself when the sweet old woman goes.
Nothing left to do on my grandmother search this evening, I turn off the computer, wash the day from my face, and head downstairs to make popcorn and watch a movie, just like I told my mom I would.
In the kitchen, I get out the kernels and the mini-kettle. I scan the directions on the popcorn container, then add the oil and kernels to the pan, turn on the stove, and start slowly turning the crank. The first kernel explodes, then the second, then twelve or twenty or fifty more. Concentrating on nothing but the span of time between the tiny explosions so as not to burn my precious popcorn, I barely notice the sound from the front entryway. In fact, by the time I pause to listen, I wonder whether I heard anything at all.
Then it’s there again: a timid knock at the front door.
Not the doorbell.
A knock.
Still holding the handle of the popcorn pan, I glance at the clock. It only feels like midnight. Really, it’s 6:58, a perfectly appropriate time for accepting visitors on a Friday night. If only I were expecting visitors.
Immediately, I wonder if today’s outfit worked; I wonder if it’s Luke. I find myself hoping that it is, even though I’m still hurt by his actions.
I set the popcorn aside and hurry from the kitchen. I switch on the porch light and wish our door had a peephole.
“Who is it?” I call.
There is a pause, and I consider backing away from the door and calling my mom to come home. Maybe it’s not him. Finally:
“It’s Luke.”
I suck in my breath. Then I wait a beat and open the door.
The waves of Luke’s hair are rustling in the winter wind and his cheeks are flushed from the cold. He briefly removes one hand from his jeans pocket to wave hello without speaking the word itself, and then replaces his hand. He looks boyish and a touch embarrassed to be here, shuffling his feet as I open the door wider.
I wrap my arms around my torso to shield myself from the frigid outdoors, but it doesn’t really help. I’m freezing, but I don’t mind.
Luke is here.
He looks around, and then suddenly his blue eyes are on mine, invading my space and my soul. I feel self-conscious from his piercing stare, but no part of me wants to break free from it, either.
“Is your mom here?” Luke asks, in a tone both soft and strong. Feeling weak, I tighten the grip on my torso for support.
“No, she went…”
Before I can finish my sentence, Luke is up the entryway step, kissing me.
Hard.