The guy leaned back into his chair and pulled a hard drag from his cigarette, keeping his eyes on Sarah’s. I noticed a dark tattoo that wound around his wrist and underneath his jacket sleeve.
“Found it!” Mom said in a singsong voice, rolling Gram’s dark pink suitcase up alongside us. She seemed not to notice the guy with the cigarette. “Let’s go—your dad should be right out here with the car.” She walked to the door and I turned to follow, but Sarah didn’t move, as if she was locked into place.
Mom took a few steps before she realized it, looking back at her. “Sarah?” she said quietly, pulling her from her daze.
Her face softened as she looked at Mom. She smiled and moved quickly, taking Gram by the elbow, helping her out to our car at the curb. When the glass doors closed behind us, I turned back and saw that the guy was still there, blowing smoke—watching Sarah.
After we got Gram all set up in the guest room and she had some time to rest, she kept insisting on taking us out for ice cream. This was something she used to do when Sarah and I were little—on every visit, we would get into whatever car she had rented (usually something bright and convertible), and she would take us to the dairy farm about half an hour away. I realized later that she was probably giving my parents a break; we would be gone for a couple of hours. And it also gave us time to visit with Gram on our own, just the three of us.
I loved when Gram came because Sarah was always on her best behavior. Gram would not allow any “nonsense,” as she called it, so Sarah knew not to act like such a raging bitch when she was around. I also felt that, unlike my parents, Gram saw Sarah for what she was, and took my side a lot. She would shoot Sarah a look sometimes that said I see through your bullshit, and that would usually shut Sarah up in a way I’d never seen from anyone else. The drive out to the farm meant listening to the radio with the top down, the wind in our hair. I never even argued with Sarah for the front seat or control of the stations—just let her have it, so we could avoid any fights.
“Yogurt? I don’t want yogurt, frozen or otherwise,” Gram complained when Dad explained that the old dairy farm had closed last year and offered to drive us to the fro-yo place instead. We finally settled on an old-fashioned ice-cream and coffee shop downtown. Dad parked and Sarah and I both had to help Gram climb out, pulling her up from the seat. When I put my hand on her arm, I felt her skin, warm and soft, under my palm.
The place was filled with twentysomething hipster types drinking cappuccinos and lattes. But Gram, unintimidated, strode up to the counter and placed our order loudly. “Two pistachio nut ice creams in bowls, and one mint chip in a sugar cone,” she recited.
When the ice creams came, I took my cone and carried Gram’s bowl to a table. Sarah looked down at the other pistachio, confused. “Is this for me? I thought it was for you.” She glanced at Dad.
Gram stopped stock-still on her way to the table and turned to look at Sarah. “It’s your favorite, dear, mine too. That’s what we always get.” Sarah reluctantly picked up the bowl of green ice cream and sat at the table. While we ate, Gram filled us in on her latest medical problems and test results. It was all slightly hard to understand—her calcium levels were up, her bone density was down, she had a pinched nerve and a bad hip. Dad asked questions and nodded, sipping his coffee while Sarah and I exchanged a look over the table. She rolled her eyes as Gram went on complaining and I hid my smile behind my ice cream. It was nice not being the only grandchild, having all the focus on me, as it had been for the past four years. Gram didn’t ask anything sensitive. It was as if we all just slipped back into our old roles. Sarah left her pistachio nut almost untouched on the table, but no one else really seemed to notice.
When we got home, Gram asked that we get her settled out on the back porch “just for a spell,” even though the evening spring air was still nippy. “Sarah, come out here and visit with me,” Gram said. “Close that door behind you.”
Mom started dinner and Dad mixed them both drinks while Sarah and Gram chatted outside. I could hear their muted voices from the kitchen. “Nico, can you set the table? Let’s put Gram on the end here, so she can get in and out of the chair with her cane.”
I walked around the table, carefully laying out cloth napkins and silverware and trying to catch what was being discussed outside, but I could only hear murmurs, not much more. Eventually, Mom flicked on the porch light and opened the door. “Dinner in ten minutes, you two.”
In a few moments, Sarah led Gram back inside, holding her elbow as before. When they came to the table, I noticed that Gram’s eyes were watery and red. Sarah’s mascara had smeared under her lower lashes.
“You’ve got some . . .” I motioned under my eyes.
Sarah ran her index finger under her lower lids, asking, “Better?”