Pacific Northwest. She rubbed her eyes open just in time to see the bus cross the Homer M. Hadley, a floating bridge that did not exist the last time she had seen Lake Washington.
Grace watched in awe as thousands of cars moved across two bridges that connected Seattle with the bedroom community of Mercer Island. She glanced at Penelope, who appeared to be awake and alert, and then returned to the mass migration of automobiles.
"I've never seen traffic like this."
"It's like this every day," Penelope said. "Is this your first trip to Seattle?"
Grace cringed as she pondered yet another simple question that required a not-so-simple answer. She wondered if she would ever be able to fully adapt to a world with so many surprises and vowed to catch up on the past fifty-nine years the next time she visited a public library.
"It's the first time I've been to this city," Grace said. She looked ahead with wide-eyed wonder as the bus came into view of several tall buildings that seemed to kiss the morning sky. "You might say I'm a small-town girl."
Penelope grabbed Grace's forearm and then patted the top of her hand.
"That's quite all right, dear. We're all small-town people at heart," she said. "Did you say you came here to meet a boy?"
"No. I came here to look for a boy – a young man, actually. His name is Joel. Joel Smith. He supposedly lives in Seattle, but I don't know precisely where."
"Is anyone picking you up at the bus station?"
Grace frowned and turned away. She could see where the conversation was going and didn't want to end it with a lie. Lying to Penelope would be different than lying to a stranger who picked up hitchhikers. She felt invested in this woman and felt obligated to give her the truth, even if the truth caused her unwelcome stress.
"No one is picking me up."
Penelope pursed her lips and looked at Grace like a mother who had correctly surmised the source of a problem that ate away at her child.
"Do you have a place to stay or a means to support yourself?"
Grace looked at the floor. She knew an offer of help was probably coming but didn't want to burden this woman or anyone else. If she were going to make it in the world of 2000, she would have to learn to fend for herself. It was the honorable thing to do, the right thing.
But when she again reached into her coat pocket and did a five-finger inventory of her liquid assets, she became wobbly. The streets of a large city could be mean to a young woman without a roof over her head. They could be very mean.
"No. I do not."
Penelope smiled.
"I didn't think so."
The old woman seemed to come to life when she heard Grace's admission. She pulled her cane from the side of the seat, sat upright, and faced her companion with resolve in her eyes.
"I have a small home on Fifty-Second Street, near the university, where I have lived semi-independently for more than twenty years. When I do require assistance, I call my daughter. She takes me to appointments, buys groceries, and does some of the cooking and cleaning."
Penelope returned her hand to Grace's.
"Doris lives a few blocks away. But she and her husband are in Europe and won't return for two weeks. If you're interested in filling in until she gets back, I will pay you three hundred dollars and provide you with a room. What would you say to that?"
Grace tried to look at Penelope but couldn't. She didn't want her new friend to see the tears that had welled in her eyes, tears that had replaced the rugged individualism from a moment ago. When she finally pulled herself together, she threw an arm around her long-lost cousin and gave her a gentle hug.
"I would say that my ship's come in."
CHAPTER 11: GRACE
Seattle, Washington – Friday, June 2, 2000
Grace put the last of the breakfast dishes in an under-the-counter device and laughed to herself as she wondered how people ever got by without machines that washed, rinsed, and dried their plates, glasses, and silverware with the touch of a
Grace watched in awe as thousands of cars moved across two bridges that connected Seattle with the bedroom community of Mercer Island. She glanced at Penelope, who appeared to be awake and alert, and then returned to the mass migration of automobiles.
"I've never seen traffic like this."
"It's like this every day," Penelope said. "Is this your first trip to Seattle?"
Grace cringed as she pondered yet another simple question that required a not-so-simple answer. She wondered if she would ever be able to fully adapt to a world with so many surprises and vowed to catch up on the past fifty-nine years the next time she visited a public library.
"It's the first time I've been to this city," Grace said. She looked ahead with wide-eyed wonder as the bus came into view of several tall buildings that seemed to kiss the morning sky. "You might say I'm a small-town girl."
Penelope grabbed Grace's forearm and then patted the top of her hand.
"That's quite all right, dear. We're all small-town people at heart," she said. "Did you say you came here to meet a boy?"
"No. I came here to look for a boy – a young man, actually. His name is Joel. Joel Smith. He supposedly lives in Seattle, but I don't know precisely where."
"Is anyone picking you up at the bus station?"
Grace frowned and turned away. She could see where the conversation was going and didn't want to end it with a lie. Lying to Penelope would be different than lying to a stranger who picked up hitchhikers. She felt invested in this woman and felt obligated to give her the truth, even if the truth caused her unwelcome stress.
"No one is picking me up."
Penelope pursed her lips and looked at Grace like a mother who had correctly surmised the source of a problem that ate away at her child.
"Do you have a place to stay or a means to support yourself?"
Grace looked at the floor. She knew an offer of help was probably coming but didn't want to burden this woman or anyone else. If she were going to make it in the world of 2000, she would have to learn to fend for herself. It was the honorable thing to do, the right thing.
But when she again reached into her coat pocket and did a five-finger inventory of her liquid assets, she became wobbly. The streets of a large city could be mean to a young woman without a roof over her head. They could be very mean.
"No. I do not."
Penelope smiled.
"I didn't think so."
The old woman seemed to come to life when she heard Grace's admission. She pulled her cane from the side of the seat, sat upright, and faced her companion with resolve in her eyes.
"I have a small home on Fifty-Second Street, near the university, where I have lived semi-independently for more than twenty years. When I do require assistance, I call my daughter. She takes me to appointments, buys groceries, and does some of the cooking and cleaning."
Penelope returned her hand to Grace's.
"Doris lives a few blocks away. But she and her husband are in Europe and won't return for two weeks. If you're interested in filling in until she gets back, I will pay you three hundred dollars and provide you with a room. What would you say to that?"
Grace tried to look at Penelope but couldn't. She didn't want her new friend to see the tears that had welled in her eyes, tears that had replaced the rugged individualism from a moment ago. When she finally pulled herself together, she threw an arm around her long-lost cousin and gave her a gentle hug.
"I would say that my ship's come in."
CHAPTER 11: GRACE
Seattle, Washington – Friday, June 2, 2000
Grace put the last of the breakfast dishes in an under-the-counter device and laughed to herself as she wondered how people ever got by without machines that washed, rinsed, and dried their plates, glasses, and silverware with the touch of a
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