for the five days that she’s in the hospital. At the end of the week she will be moved to a rehab hospital, where she will stay for two weeks before she returns to the assisted-living center. I read to her from magazines, then baby books, anything I think might get a response from her. I even try, toward the end of the week, to read some of my letters and answers to her. Ordinarily, hearing an expert opinion on feeding or bathing an infant would get some kind of rise out of Gram, who does not believe in expert opinions. And any mention of my column, or the letters from my readers, brings a snort of disgust. But I get nothing from her now. If she’s awake when I enter the room, she says hello, and she says good-bye when I leave. Other than that, she sleeps or looks out the window. The view is nothing to look at. The tops of a few trees green with leaves. A sliver of sky.
I tell Gram that the baby has started kicking, and that some days I think she is on the verge of breaking through the wall of my uterus. When I’m sure Gram is sleeping, I tell her that this kicking makes me feel even more alone. It makes me feel that my body is just a big, ever-growing shell, and that the only life in it is concentrated in this baby. I also tell Gram that each morning I give the baby a little pep talk about focusing all her energy on growing different organs and limbs. I recommend to the baby that she grow up to be stronger than me. To be more open and accessible than Lila. To be less difficult than my mother. To be more communicative than my father. To be a person who knows herself completely, like Gram.
I tell Gram that I worry over this baby, a little more every day. The worry grows with the size of my belly. I think of Gram’s missing children, the twins and the little girl, and I know I could never survive that kind of loss. I can’t help but notice Meggy eyeing me every day at the hospital. The worry grows until it is the size of a full-grown person sitting beside me. How will I manage to hold on to anything, how can I hold on to this tiny future person?
Lila says, “Gracie, you smell. Will you please go home and take a shower?”
My mother says, “Your grandmother doesn’t need you here every single minute. You’ll feel better if you change out of those clothes. How about if I take you girls out to dinner?”
Meggy makes whispered comments to Angel that I am meant to hear. “Gracie is losing it. She sits there in Daddy’s sweater and mutters under her breath. She acts more and more like Ryan every day, don’t you think? Does she look like she has the makings of a good mother to you?”
I try to ignore them. Meggy is wrong. They are all wrong. What they don’t understand is that I will be fine as soon as Gram is better. When she is herself, I will cease to worry. When she is herself, I can go back to being myself. The problem is, after a few days at Gram’s bedside, I cannot for the life of me recall who that was. Which makes me worry for the baby, too.
When I return home one afternoon, there is another message on the machine from Grayson. “You need to do your work.” An annoyed pause. “You need to call me.”
GRAM SHOWS signs of life the day before she is to be moved to the rehab hospital. She notices the nurses gathering her things, and my mother filling out paperwork. She says, “Kelly.”
My mother crosses the room to her bedside. “What is it, Mother?”
My father and I, the only other people in the room, pay close attention. The hazy quality to Gram’s voice is gone. She sounds like herself.
“Promise me I won’t have to move into the other building at the old-age home. I don’t want to leave my room.”
My mother leans over Gram and speaks in a slow voice. “You’re not going anywhere for a few more weeks, Mother. You’re going to the rehab hospital first. We have to get you comfortable on your feet, moving around. The doctor says you’ll be back to doing the fox-trot and running up the stairs really