in some semblance of uniform. Track teams, soccer teams. Even older people seemed influenced by the rhythms of the college, and joined them on the path. Everyone was in training for something. The energy around us seemed to feed Ellie, and for a long time she was able to keep up with me. The camera swung around my neck, but the tree where I’d seen the squirrels leaping the day before was empty, and I didn’t see anything else worthy enough to document.
It was still early, and not nearly as crowded as it would be at 2 or 3:00, so we were able to walk side by side without having to avoid anyone. A few college girls passed us, with bouncing ponytails and springy sneakers that made them look like they could catapult moonward.
“Promise me you’ll never wear a verb or a noun on your bottom.”
“I promise, Grandma,” she said, and I buzzed with pride when she called me that.
Another jogger zoomed around us, so close we had to dodge her droplets of sweat. So close the words on her yellow pants were abundantly clear: CHIQUITA.
Bryn Mawr Diner wasn’t really in Bryn Mawr proper. If it was, it would be on the edge of Bryn Mawr College’s campus instead of the edge of Villanova’s. Its green neon OPEN sign was almost as large as the small building; as we approached you could hear its thrum against the windowpanes. There was a short line for tables, but Stuart’s was too far away to be practical, so I pointed Ellie toward the counter. I ordered a club sandwich and Ellie decided on pancakes. She looked up at me as she poured the river of syrup, as if waiting for an admonition that never came. What, I’d like to know, is the point of eating pancakes without at least a decent-size tributary of syrup? When she offered me a bite I poured even more syrup on it, and she smiled.
Afterward we wandered through the small downtown. Over the years it had become more and more oriented to the college—vintage clothing, used books and music stores, a “raw foods” restaurant where all the patrons looked pale. At the art store I bought Ellie a new set of markers for her next project. Outside the thrift shop, a pair of young men played guitar and when they saw Ellie, segued into “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.” It was a cheap trick but it worked—I gave her a quarter to toss into their case, and she insisted I take a picture of them, as if they were famous. She stood at the edge of the frame, smiling.
Halfway home, the sun directly in our eyes, Ellie’s energy started to flag. She walked so slowly I heard her sneakers scraping on the sidewalk, and I had to keep turning around to make sure she was there. I motioned toward a bus shelter on the opposite edge of campus, and even though we were almost home, suggested we take a break.
I’ve tried hard to remember every detail of sitting there—how long we lingered, who else walked by first, the faces and gaits of the knot of joggers who swallowed Tinsley and her friend before and after we saw them, as if they were a Secret Service detail designed to keep them out of sight.
I saw her first, not him. It was the familiar flash of light in her hair that caught my eye, which I’d seen so many times in the sunshine of an Easter egg hunt, or the twinkle of a Christmas tree. Lots of women have streaked hair but Tinsley’s highlights had a particular golden glint, flying loose around her head like maypole ribbons, and I saw them right away. Her hair, then her, then him.
“Look, it’s your mother,” bubbled out of my mouth, regrettably, as soon as I saw the hair. Ellie stood up and looked in the same direction, not speaking, the way children do when they’re truly concentrating. I stood up, too, but I don’t know why. To protect her? To leap in front of the view?
“Take a picture of her, Grandma,” Ellie said excitedly and I raised the camera to my eye too quickly, finding my focus too easily. Tinsley’s companion came into the frame through my viewfinder, and he looked wrong, all wrong, like a tourist wandering onto a film set. Their elbows bumped and my finger snapped the photo quickly, as if I could capture her before he did. Then, in