carpet, although faint stains marred its original luster.
I sat in a worn armchair. “Is Mia okay? Are you okay?”
“We’re getting by.”
Across the room, a tall bookshelf held an assortment of novels, including a set of Miracle Mouse mysteries. As Harriet got up unsteadily and shuffled toward the bookshelf, she looked for a moment like Nana. My throat tightened, tears springing to my eyes. In her last days, illness had reduced my grandmother from a strong, outspoken artist to a quiet, brittle shell. Until now, I’d always had the portrait of Miracle Mouse to remind me of Nana in her better days.
When Harriet bent to retrieve an old photo album from the bottom shelf, the resemblance disappeared. Her hair was too dark, her shoulders too narrow. She sat on the couch again, patted the cushion next to her. I went over to sit with her.
“I had framed photos all over the house,” she said in a tremulous voice. “But I put them away. Chad is in nearly all of them. I feel like I’m betraying my little boy. But I can’t bear to look at them.” She took a crumpled tissue from her sweater pocket and wiped more tears from her cheeks.
Somewhere, a clock ticked away the hour. “I’m sure he would understand. We don’t have to look at pictures—”
“I’m feeling a little brave, now that you’re here.” Harriet’s fingers shook as she opened the album and pointed to a page-sized photo of a sleeping baby swaddled in soft blankets. “That’s my boy,” she whispered.
“He’s beautiful,” I replied. Was. How could she bear to look at her infant son?
“Always was.” As she turned the pages, Chad grew from a chubby, blond toddler into a robust, sandy-haired boy. But Mia didn’t look much like him. By early adolescence, he had acquired the husky body shape of a budding football player. Mia took after her delicate mother.
Harriet closed the album and heaved a sigh. Were her hands trembling from grief alone, or was it something else, too?
“Those are lovely pictures,” I said. “Mia must miss her mom and dad.”
Something hardened in Harriet’s face. “Her mom. Chad fell head over heels in love with that woman. Nothing I could do to stop him. At least I have Mia. That’s a blessing.”
“May I see her now?” I said.
“All right, but she’s done something naughty.”
“Oh no, what?” I feigned surprise.
“You’ll see. Come on.” Harriet beckoned me down the hall and pointed into an untidy bedroom, all painted blue. The room must’ve once belonged to Chad. Mia’s dolls and books and stuffed animals stood in stark contrast to the Dukes of Hazzard and Star Wars posters still plastered all over the walls. A worn desk and chest of drawers carried the nicks and battle scars of time.
Mia slept on a small bed by the window, splayed out on her back. Her chest rose and fell in an uneasy rhythm, her cheeks slightly flushed. She wore patched jeans and a pink T-shirt. A psychotic stylist had slashed at her golden locks, cutting at random. Her bangs fell in a jagged line.
“She got the scissors out of the drawer,” Harriet whispered. “Children can be quick when you’re not looking.”
I tiptoed into the room. As I approached Mia, the little girl sighed and shifted. In sleep, she bore an even more remarkable resemblance to Monique. Streamlined nose with a slight rise at the tip, a smattering of translucent freckles, delicate jawline.
I sat next to Mia and kissed her cheek. She smelled like baby powder. She took a deep breath but didn’t wake up. Her forehead felt cool and slightly damp to the touch. Since she’d cut her bangs, more of her scalp was visible. She did not appear to have any recent injuries—no bruises or wounds on her skin. A white scar sat up near the hairline, perhaps a healed cut or a birthmark similar to Johnny’s. Her eyelids fluttered open. She sat up, dazed, and threw her arms around my neck. She said something quiet, something muffled.
“What is it, sweetie?” I
I sat in a worn armchair. “Is Mia okay? Are you okay?”
“We’re getting by.”
Across the room, a tall bookshelf held an assortment of novels, including a set of Miracle Mouse mysteries. As Harriet got up unsteadily and shuffled toward the bookshelf, she looked for a moment like Nana. My throat tightened, tears springing to my eyes. In her last days, illness had reduced my grandmother from a strong, outspoken artist to a quiet, brittle shell. Until now, I’d always had the portrait of Miracle Mouse to remind me of Nana in her better days.
When Harriet bent to retrieve an old photo album from the bottom shelf, the resemblance disappeared. Her hair was too dark, her shoulders too narrow. She sat on the couch again, patted the cushion next to her. I went over to sit with her.
“I had framed photos all over the house,” she said in a tremulous voice. “But I put them away. Chad is in nearly all of them. I feel like I’m betraying my little boy. But I can’t bear to look at them.” She took a crumpled tissue from her sweater pocket and wiped more tears from her cheeks.
Somewhere, a clock ticked away the hour. “I’m sure he would understand. We don’t have to look at pictures—”
“I’m feeling a little brave, now that you’re here.” Harriet’s fingers shook as she opened the album and pointed to a page-sized photo of a sleeping baby swaddled in soft blankets. “That’s my boy,” she whispered.
“He’s beautiful,” I replied. Was. How could she bear to look at her infant son?
“Always was.” As she turned the pages, Chad grew from a chubby, blond toddler into a robust, sandy-haired boy. But Mia didn’t look much like him. By early adolescence, he had acquired the husky body shape of a budding football player. Mia took after her delicate mother.
Harriet closed the album and heaved a sigh. Were her hands trembling from grief alone, or was it something else, too?
“Those are lovely pictures,” I said. “Mia must miss her mom and dad.”
Something hardened in Harriet’s face. “Her mom. Chad fell head over heels in love with that woman. Nothing I could do to stop him. At least I have Mia. That’s a blessing.”
“May I see her now?” I said.
“All right, but she’s done something naughty.”
“Oh no, what?” I feigned surprise.
“You’ll see. Come on.” Harriet beckoned me down the hall and pointed into an untidy bedroom, all painted blue. The room must’ve once belonged to Chad. Mia’s dolls and books and stuffed animals stood in stark contrast to the Dukes of Hazzard and Star Wars posters still plastered all over the walls. A worn desk and chest of drawers carried the nicks and battle scars of time.
Mia slept on a small bed by the window, splayed out on her back. Her chest rose and fell in an uneasy rhythm, her cheeks slightly flushed. She wore patched jeans and a pink T-shirt. A psychotic stylist had slashed at her golden locks, cutting at random. Her bangs fell in a jagged line.
“She got the scissors out of the drawer,” Harriet whispered. “Children can be quick when you’re not looking.”
I tiptoed into the room. As I approached Mia, the little girl sighed and shifted. In sleep, she bore an even more remarkable resemblance to Monique. Streamlined nose with a slight rise at the tip, a smattering of translucent freckles, delicate jawline.
I sat next to Mia and kissed her cheek. She smelled like baby powder. She took a deep breath but didn’t wake up. Her forehead felt cool and slightly damp to the touch. Since she’d cut her bangs, more of her scalp was visible. She did not appear to have any recent injuries—no bruises or wounds on her skin. A white scar sat up near the hairline, perhaps a healed cut or a birthmark similar to Johnny’s. Her eyelids fluttered open. She sat up, dazed, and threw her arms around my neck. She said something quiet, something muffled.
“What is it, sweetie?” I
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