The trip to Nana’s is weird. There aren’t many cars on the road, not since everyone realized that people who have a Violence flare while they’re driving tend to purposefully ram other vehicles at full speed. The schools are closed for summer now, and most of the rich and wannabe rich people have driven up north to cold places where mosquitoes can’t live. Ella read an article online about how prices for hotel rooms, rentals, and homes in cooler climates have skyrocketed, and it’s almost impossible to find an open bed north of the Mason-Dixon Line now. The only people left in the hot, humid South are those who can’t afford to leave and those who live behind strong fences—and, she figures, people who have the Violence and are hiding it by avoiding the public. Considering her family is still down here and her mom harps on her to keep the AC at seventy-four and turn off the lights in empty rooms, she’s starting to think they might be among those who have money problems.
They get caught at a red light even though not a single car is waiting to turn. Ella’s in the back with Brooklyn, and directly ahead of the car is a little building she’s never noticed before because she’s usually either driving or checking her texts at the light. It’s a small yellow house, maybe the size of a large bathroom, and the big sign on the roof says Big Fred’s Floors. A scrolling digital sign is shouting something about how what women really want is new carpet, but that’s not nearly as eye-catching as the splotch of red on the other side of the front door. It’s at head height and in a big…splurt. What looks like a body in a plaid shirt is slumped on the ground underneath it, a concrete block resting where the head should be.
Mom must see it, too, as she guns it and runs the red light. Good. Ella didn’t want to look at the little yellow house with its plaid-covered lump for another moment. Luckily Brooklyn is directly behind Mom’s seat and totally enraptured by the princess movie on her tablet.
At Nana’s gate, the usual guard, Homer, is wearing badly fitting riot gear. He shuffles over to check Mom’s driver’s license and lets them through. Mom heaves a big sigh of relief, and Ella realizes that she hasn’t seen another adult, other than Uncle Chad, since she got the Violence. Did she think Homer was going to swab her and throw her in jail?
It’s definitely different in Nana’s neighborhood. The yards are all perfect and green like Astroturf, summer in full bloom. The palm trees and flowers provide bright pops of color against the imposing mansions, their fountains spouting sparkling water. No one is outside on the sidewalks, none of the usual power-walkers in Lululemon or upright old women proud of their tiny poodles or sleek hunting dogs. There aren’t even any golf carts or golfers. The perfect green hills with their perfect little flags are utterly empty of angry old men. It’s a beautiful, shiny ghost town. A mosquito spraying truck slowly crawls up the road, pumping poison into the air despite the fact that mosquitoes can never be completely eradicated.
“Do you even know if Nana is home?” Ella asks.
Her mom doesn’t answer immediately, and when she says, “No,” it’s almost a question.
In the back of the car, Brooklyn kicks her feet along with whatever song the tablet is piping in through her kid-sized, cat-eared headphones.
“Mom. Seriously. What’s going on? Please tell me. I don’t…It’s just…” Ella huffs, almost a whine. “This is hard, you know?”
Chelsea parks the minivan in Nana’s empty driveway and looks into the rearview mirror to make eye contact, as close as she’ll get to her daughters in the tight space. Ella usually prefers to sit up front. But not now.
“I know it’s hard, honey. It’s hard on all of us, and it wasn’t exactly easy before.” Her crooked smile is the saddest, smallest apology for marrying Dad and sticking with him, and it does not spark an answering, understanding smile in Ella. Mom frowns again and in a cracking, defeated voice, says, “Uncle Chad said Dad’s going to be home soon. We need options.”
And then she’s getting out of the minivan and making an effort to look upbeat and happy and nice and in firm control. It’s an all-too-familiar sort of look, and Ella hates it but knows well enough how to follow suit. Like Dad, Nana is nicer to her when she’s smiling and silent.
“Come on, Brookie.” She snaps her little sister out of her tablet coma and they follow Mom to the front door. Brooklyn skips and sings about what might currently be in Nana’s candy dish. She only really comes to Nana’s house for parties, and she spends the parties either splashing in the pool or playing croquet with Nana’s nice old gardener, Miguel. She loves the pastel dresses Nana buys for her and the shiny black shoes with lacy socks. Nana makes her feel like a princess, which is exactly what she wants. It would be so much easier to be five right now and have no idea what was going on.
Mom rings the doorbell, and after a long time, Nana answers it herself. She doesn’t hide her annoyance and distrust as she glares at them.
“What a surprise,” Nana says, and not in a way that suggests it’s a good surprise.
“Hi, Mom. Can we come in?”
Nana glances up and down the sidewalk and waves them inside. “How unlike you to seek me out.”
They don’t visit often, and never without a clear invitation, which is always more like a summons. This is the first time Ella can remember Nana answering the door herself since she married Grandpa Randall and moved in here. It’s always smiling, friendly Rosa in her polo shirt, so tall she has to duck through the front door but always glad to see them. Or acting like she is.
“Where’s Rosa?” Brooklyn asks, and Nana’s frown makes Ella very glad she wasn’t the one to ask.
“Rosa and Miguel are no longer with us. Brooklyn, sweetheart, why don’t you go investigate Nana’s candy dish.” Nana is already gliding toward the kitchen, no hugs or questions about how they’re doing. The house is spotless, and a fresh bouquet of white flowers sits on the hall table. Brooklyn skips off to the sunroom to raid the shiny crystal bowl that’s always full of sweets.
“How’s Randall?” Mom asks.
Nana stops at the kitchen island and turns to face them, her acrylic nails tapping on the marble. “The judge is very busy.”
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
Because that’s Nana logic. The world is upside down and people are dying but as long as her husband is busy and making more money, it’s good.
Ella fights the urge to fidget as her mom and her grandmom face off wearing masks of cold politeness. There is no silence like the silence in Nana’s house. No pets, no TV in the background, no loud appliances, just the ticking of Grandpa Randall’s grandfather clock in the all-white dining room that they’re never allowed to enter.
“Did you need something?” Nana finally asks, as formal and flat and cold as if they were strangers knocking on her door to sell her cookies she doesn’t want.
“I need to ask a favor.”
Nana’s lips curl up like a Disney villain. “I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t quite catch that. Could you repeat it?”
Mom huffs in annoyance, her mask slipping. “I said I need a favor.”
“And what might that be?” Nana crosses her arms and leans back against her kitchen island looking young and lively and smooth, like she’s nourished by groveling. It’s so odd to Ella that her mom is only twenty years older than her, and Nana is only eighteen years older than her mom. She has friends whose moms are older than her grandmother. She is determined not to continue the pattern.
“I need to borrow money for the vaccine.”