The skin around Agnes’s waist looks even worse after the string comes off. It’s so raw that it’s actually slimy, and sections of it are tinged with blood. Nana Pete rushes back over to Wal-Mart and returns with two bottles of hydrogen peroxide, bacitracin ointment, and white gauze. I keep Benny occupied on the other side of the room, playing with the new deck of cards Nana Pete got us, as she wipes down Agnes’s wounds. Agnes makes tiny, muted cries as the peroxide and then the ointment is rubbed into her skin.
“Promise me you won’t do something like this to yourself again,” Nana Pete says, as she wraps the last of the gauze around Agnes’s middle. Agnes just looks away from her. “There’s no need for it. God already knows what a wonderful person you are, Mouse. You don’t have to try to convince him.” Agnes closes her eyes.
Later, Nana Pete orders something called room service, which is almost as cool as the McDonald’s drive-through, except that it takes way too long to arrive. Benny and I get grilled-cheese sandwich platters with french fries, coleslaw, and baked beans, and Nana Pete orders a taco salad with beef chili and sour cream. She spends a long time trying to convince Agnes to pick something from the menu, but Agnes won’t talk.
“Just order her a turkey sandwich,” I say exasperatedly. “I’ll shove it down her throat if I have to.” Agnes presses her lips together tightly.
But when the food comes, it’s a different story. Agnes’s meal turns out to be a soup-and-sandwich combo, and when Nana Pete takes the lid off the bowl of chicken-corn chowder and passes it under Agnes’s nose, her eyes actually fill up with tears.
“Eat it,” Nana Pete says gently, pushing the bowl into Agnes’s hands. “Please.”
She takes a tentative spoonful, sliding the utensil between her teeth, and when she swallows, her whole face relaxes. In three minutes, the soup is gone. Ten minutes later, her sandwich, side of potato chips, and three pickle spears have vanished as well.
“Thank God,” Nana Pete whispers, after Agnes finally falls asleep. Next to his sister, Benny is curled up like a little puppy, his face nestled in tightly alongside her ribs. “Maybe now she’ll start feeling normal again.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t bet on it.”
But Nana Pete isn’t listening to me. She’s punching numbers on her cell phone.
“Who’re you calling?” I ask.
“Lillian.” She puts the phone to her ear.
“Lillian?” I repeat. “I think I heard Agnes mention her once, a long time ago. Is she your daughter?”
Nana Pete nods. “My only daughter and Leonard’s only sibling.” She holds up an index finger. “Hold on. It’s the machine. I have to leave a message.” She pauses and then speaks into the phone. “Lillian, darlin’, it’s me. Call me on the cell phone. We need to talk.” She clicks it shut and leans back heavily against the headboard, closing her eyes.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Just tired.”
“You know, Agnes told me she’s never met Lillian. Is that true?”
Nana Pete rubs the deep wrinkles above her eyebrows with two fingers. “Leonard and Lillian had a falling out just before Agnes was born. She didn’t like where he was living and, well, Lillian had her own set of problems that Leonard didn’t—or wouldn’t—tolerate. They haven’t spoken since. One of the rules I had to abide by so I could come visit my grandchildren was that I never talk about her.”
“So in order to come to Mount Blessing, you had to promise Mr. Little that you would never talk about your own daughter?” Nana Pete nods. “That’s mean,” I say. “That’s actually kind of horrible, when you think about it. He just erased Lillian completely from Agnes’s life. Like she never even existed.”
“Yes,” Nana Pete answers softly. A strange, faraway look comes into her eyes. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, Honey.”
I stay still, waiting for her to say more, but she doesn’t. Instead she hands me a black rectangular piece of plastic. “Why don’t you watch some TV?” she asks. “I’m going to take a shower and then hit the hay.”
I pick up the instrument. It’s very light. “What is this?”
Nana Pete smiles at me and takes it back. Pointing it at the TV, she pushes a button. Instantly, the screen blazes to life.
I jump back. “Wow! It’s color!”
“Of course it’s color, silly.” Nana Pete tosses me the black rectangle again. “Here. This is called a remote control. You use this to change the channels.”
I study the multitude of colored buttons on the front of the rectangle and then turn it over. Nothing on the back. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything so cool. Winky would love this. After a minute, Nana Pete disappears into the bathroom. I have just started to flip through the hundreds of channels when Nana Pete’s phone rings.
I grab it and run toward the bathroom. “Nana Pete!” I strain to keep my voice low. “It’s your phone!” There is a brief pause and then the door opens just a crack.
Nana Pete’s wet hand snakes through. “Thank you, darlin’.”