To be honest, though, some days are more like an ordeal—especially when my joints ache so badly that even walking to the bathroom becomes a feat.
My little house on Maplewood Avenue isn’t what it used to be. The wallpaper in the living room has faded over thirty years, and the wooden porch steps creak louder each spring.
George, my husband, was always going to fix them, but never got around to it before his heart attack.
Eight years have passed, and I still talk to him sometimes in the mornings, telling him the news as if he’s just gone out to the garden and will be back soon.
This is the house where my children, Wesley and Thelma, grew up. Everything here remembers their baby steps, their laughter, and their fights.
Now it seems like those happy, noisy days never happened.
Thelma comes in once a month, always in a hurry, always looking at her watch.
Wesley shows up more often, but only when he needs something. Usually money, or a signature on some paperwork. Every time he swears he’ll pay it back soon, but in fifteen years he’s never paid it back.
Today is Wednesday, the day I usually bake blueberry pie. Not for me, because I can’t eat that much on my own. It’s for Reed, my grandson—the only one in the family who visits me without an ulterior motive.
Just so he can spend time with his old grandmother, drink tea, talk about his college business.
I hear the gate slam, and I know it’s him. Reed has a peculiar gait—light, but a little clumsy—as if he’s not used to his tall stature yet. He inherited it from his grandfather.
“Grandmother Edith,” his voice comes from the doorway. “I smell a specialty pie.”
“Sure you do,” I say, smiling, wiping my hands on my apron. “Come on in. It’s just about the right temperature.”
Reed leans over to hug me. Now I have to tilt my head back to see his face. It’s weird. When did he get so big?
“How’s school going?” I ask, sitting him down at the kitchen table.
“Still struggling with higher math. I got an A on my last exam,” Reed says proudly, eating his pie. “Professor Duval even asked me to work on a research project.”
“I always knew you were smart.” I pour his tea. “Your grandfather would be proud of you.”
Reed is silent for a moment, staring out the window at the old apple tree. I know what he’s thinking. George taught him to climb it when he was only seven.
Wesley yelled that we’d never do the kid any good.
And George just laughed.
A boy’s got to be able to fall down and get up.
“Grandma, have you decided what you’re going to wear on Friday?” Reed suddenly asks, returning to the pie.
“Friday?” I look at him, puzzled. “What’s going to be on Friday?”
Reed freezes with his fork in the air. A strange expression appears on his face, a mixture of surprise and confusion.
“Dinner. It’s dad and mom’s wedding anniversary. Thirty years. They have reservations at Willow Creek. Didn’t daddy tell you?”
I slowly sit down across from him, feeling something chill inside.
Thirty years of my son’s marriage is a significant date. Of course, they should celebrate.
But why am I hearing about it from my grandson and not Wesley himself?
“Maybe he was going to call,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light-hearted. “You know, your father always putting things off until the last minute.”
Reed looks uncomfortable, picking at the leftover pie with his fork.
“I guess he does,” he agrees without much conviction.
We move on to other topics. Reed talks about his plans for the summer, about a girl named Audrey he met at the library. I listen, nodding, asking questions, but my thoughts keep returning to this dinner.
Why hasn’t Wesley called? Is he really planning to celebrate without me?
When Reed leaves, promising to stop by over the weekend, I stand at the window for a long time, staring out at the empty street.
In the house across the street, Mrs. Fletcher, my age, plays with her grandchildren. Her daughter comes every Wednesday bringing the kids. They are noisy, running around the yard, and old Beatrice is glowing with happiness.
I wish my children could be there too.
The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. I recognize Wesley’s number immediately.
“Mom, it’s me.” His voice sounds a little strained.
“Hello, darling.” I answer, trying to sound normal. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Listen, I’m calling about Friday.”
So you were going to ask me out after all.
I feel warm inside. Maybe I was wrong to think badly of them. Maybe they were just running around and didn’t give me enough notice.
“Cora and I were planning a little anniversary dinner,” Wesley continues, “but unfortunately, we’re going to have to cancel. Ka caught some kind of virus—fever, the whole thing. The doctor said she needs to stay home for at least a week.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” I’m genuinely saddened, though. There’s something in his voice that makes me uneasy. “Is there anything I can do to help? Can I get some chicken broth or—”
“No, no, no, that’s okay,” Wesley interrupts hastily. “We have everything. I just wanted to let you know. We’ll reschedule for another day when Cora is better. We’ll be sure to call you.”
“Of course, darling. Give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”
“I will. Okay, Mom. I got to run. I’ll call you later.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else.
The conversation leaves a strange aftertaste. Something’s wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is.
I spend the rest of the day flipping through old photo albums. Here’s Wesley at five years old with a knocked-out front tooth and a proud smile. Here’s Thelma on her first bike. George teaching them to swim in the lake.
Christmas dinners when we all got together.
When did all that change? When did my children become so distant?
That evening, I call Thelma casually, asking about Kora. To my surprise, she knows nothing about her daughter-in-law’s illness.
“Mom, I have a lot to do at the store before the weekend,” she says impatiently. “If you want to know about Kora, call Wesley.”
“But you’re coming to their anniversary on Friday, right?” I ask cautiously.
The pause on the other end of the line is too long.
“Oh, that’s what you mean. Yeah, sure,” Thelma finally answers. “Look, I really have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
And then the short beeps again.
I stare at the phone, feeling the anxiety growing inside.
They’re hiding something, both of them.
Thursday morning, I go to the local supermarket. I don’t so much need to get groceries as to stretch my legs and clear my head.
In the vegetable section, I run into Doris Simmons, an old acquaintance who works in the same flower store as Thelma.
“Edith, it’s been a long time,” she exclaims, hugging me. “How’s your health?”
“Not bad for my age,” I smile. “Are you still working with Thelma?”
“Of course I am. Only tomorrow is my day off. Thelma’s taking the evening off for a family celebration. I hear thirty years is a big date.”
I nod, trying to hide my confusion.
So dinner wasn’t cancelled.
So Wesley lied to me.
But why?
When I get home, I sit in my chair for a long time trying to figure out what’s going on.
Maybe they’re springing a surprise on me.
But then why the lies about Ka being sick? And why was Thelma acting so strangely?
The phone rings again, but it’s not Wesley or Thelma.
It’s Reed.
“Grandma, I forgot to ask. Have you seen my blue notebook? I think I left it at your place last time.”
“Let me see.” I go into the living room where Reed usually sits. I don’t see it. “Maybe it’s in the kitchen.”
While I’m looking, Reed keeps talking.
“If you find it, can you give it to Dad tomorrow? He’ll pick you up, right?”
