Grandma Lucy. And I doubt that even I’ll manage to forget the night they found my grandmother trying to liberate the Silkie chickens at Far Enough Farm. Stupid things just flapped about refusing to move, to comprehend the gift she was giving them. She didn’t mean to kill any of them, I’m sure of it. Accidents just happen. Especially in this family.
With no sign of Grace anywhere, I put my paddle back in the water and pulled out another memory card. What is your mother’s name? What month is it? What year were you born? My mother’s name was Rose. It was July, no June, and I was born in 1955. I still couldn’t remember what color a five-dollar bill was, but took comfort in knowing I hadn’t forgotten the question. Another point for me.
By the time the Lipstick Queen and I made it back to the bridge, I’d completed two more cards and the score was now Ruby, 3, and Big Al, 1—a good morning indeed.
Hauling the canoe out of the water, I couldn’t wait to tell Grace about the race. Hand her the forty dollars and tell her to order something for herself on the Internet. Another bird book. A T-shirt that hadn’t been someone else’s first. Anything that would make her happy, make her start talking to me again. But there was still no sign of her when I arrived back at the house fifteen minutes later.
What was going on? Did she want to make me worry? Was she punishing me for something? I glanced over at her bedroom door. There was only one way to find out.
I opened the door, checked the kitchen window for any sign of her in the yard, then stepped into her room. Her bed was unmade, her clothes all over the dresser, but that was fine. This was her domain. The one place in the world that was hers to control. And she would never know I’d been there.
Her computer sat on the desk by the window. An old model but fast enough to get whatever she needed from the net. I eased the chair back and pressed the space bar. Sat down and watched the monitor come to life, the icons slowly lining themselves up on the screen. “Come on,” I whispered, listening for the gate to close, a bike to drop—any sign that Grace was back while the screen settled and the hourglass finally disappeared. I put my fingers on the keyboard and a box came up demanding a password. I sighed. Not this again.
I tried 1234 , then birds , then Grace , then Wards , then Hanlans . None of those worked so I tried her birthday, my birthday, the current year, still nothing. I looked around the room for clues and typed in paperweight, mouse, Angelinajolie, and bikingworld . That did it. I was in.
I checked the browser history first. Nothing interesting there. Then I punched around in her e-mail, checking the sent files, the deleted files. Again, nothing out of the ordinary: a birding website sending an update, another inviting her to join its chat group. Fortunately she had declined, making life easier for both of us. You never knew who was creeping around those sites.
A new message popped up. A note from some beauty college thanking her for her interest in their online aesthetics courses. A brochure was attached. I hit Reply and asked them to remove me from their mailing list. Then I deleted the original message as well as my response and logged out of her e-mail. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her that Chez Ruby was not now and never would be in the aesthetics business. But at least we’d avoid the discussion today.
I waited for her computer to resume hibernation, then rolled her desk chair back in and closed the door when I left. Taking my notebook out of my pocket, I wrote, Reminder: Grace’s password bikingworld, and jumped when I heard her coming up the stairs.
“Morning, Mary Anne,” she called as she opened the door.
I shoved the notebook back in my pocket and stepped in front of her before she could drop the binoculars and the bird book. Before she could make her way to the kettle, the fridge, the eggs over easy. “Where have you
With no sign of Grace anywhere, I put my paddle back in the water and pulled out another memory card. What is your mother’s name? What month is it? What year were you born? My mother’s name was Rose. It was July, no June, and I was born in 1955. I still couldn’t remember what color a five-dollar bill was, but took comfort in knowing I hadn’t forgotten the question. Another point for me.
By the time the Lipstick Queen and I made it back to the bridge, I’d completed two more cards and the score was now Ruby, 3, and Big Al, 1—a good morning indeed.
Hauling the canoe out of the water, I couldn’t wait to tell Grace about the race. Hand her the forty dollars and tell her to order something for herself on the Internet. Another bird book. A T-shirt that hadn’t been someone else’s first. Anything that would make her happy, make her start talking to me again. But there was still no sign of her when I arrived back at the house fifteen minutes later.
What was going on? Did she want to make me worry? Was she punishing me for something? I glanced over at her bedroom door. There was only one way to find out.
I opened the door, checked the kitchen window for any sign of her in the yard, then stepped into her room. Her bed was unmade, her clothes all over the dresser, but that was fine. This was her domain. The one place in the world that was hers to control. And she would never know I’d been there.
Her computer sat on the desk by the window. An old model but fast enough to get whatever she needed from the net. I eased the chair back and pressed the space bar. Sat down and watched the monitor come to life, the icons slowly lining themselves up on the screen. “Come on,” I whispered, listening for the gate to close, a bike to drop—any sign that Grace was back while the screen settled and the hourglass finally disappeared. I put my fingers on the keyboard and a box came up demanding a password. I sighed. Not this again.
I tried 1234 , then birds , then Grace , then Wards , then Hanlans . None of those worked so I tried her birthday, my birthday, the current year, still nothing. I looked around the room for clues and typed in paperweight, mouse, Angelinajolie, and bikingworld . That did it. I was in.
I checked the browser history first. Nothing interesting there. Then I punched around in her e-mail, checking the sent files, the deleted files. Again, nothing out of the ordinary: a birding website sending an update, another inviting her to join its chat group. Fortunately she had declined, making life easier for both of us. You never knew who was creeping around those sites.
A new message popped up. A note from some beauty college thanking her for her interest in their online aesthetics courses. A brochure was attached. I hit Reply and asked them to remove me from their mailing list. Then I deleted the original message as well as my response and logged out of her e-mail. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her that Chez Ruby was not now and never would be in the aesthetics business. But at least we’d avoid the discussion today.
I waited for her computer to resume hibernation, then rolled her desk chair back in and closed the door when I left. Taking my notebook out of my pocket, I wrote, Reminder: Grace’s password bikingworld, and jumped when I heard her coming up the stairs.
“Morning, Mary Anne,” she called as she opened the door.
I shoved the notebook back in my pocket and stepped in front of her before she could drop the binoculars and the bird book. Before she could make her way to the kettle, the fridge, the eggs over easy. “Where have you
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