fall as Grandpa and I brought in my cleaning supplies and bags. A piece of glass fell from one of the bags onto the floor in our apartment, where it embedded into Mia’s heel but somehow caused her so little pain, she didn’t notice it at first. It was her only injury. Physically, anyway. And I could fix it.
Grandpa stood in the apartment, in the small open space by the door, looking around. He’d never visited us here. None of my family had. I wondered if he could tell I’d gotten rid of things that he’d handed down to me.
“You don’t have a microwave,” he said, his gaze fixed on the corner where the kitchen was.
I looked at the counters, bare except for a cutting board and dish rack and too small for much else. “I don’t have room for a microwave,” I said.
“You could put it on top of the fridge,” he said, pointing to where I’d put a plant. “I have one at the office that I don’t use. I’ll bring it over.”
“Please, Grandpa,” I said, reaching down to pick up Mia. “I just don’t have room.”
His eyes watered again. My phone started buzzing in my pocket. I recognized the long set of digits from my mom’s international phone numbers.
“You called my mom?” I asked, unable to hide that I was annoyed.
“Of course I did,” he said. “She should know her daughter and granddaughter were in an accident.”
I felt my jaw clench. I knew that, now that Grandma was gone, Mom never missed a Sunday afternoon call to Grandpa. I knew she asked him if he’d seen us, or how we were doing, or what we were up to. In the moment, more than ever, I didn’t feel like she’d earned the right to any information about our accident. I had needed her that summer, when Mia dealt with so much sickness and needed tubes in her ears. I had needed her many times since she’d moved to Europe. I had needed her and couldn’t call to tell her. We could barely have a conversation anymore, our phone calls echoed with horrible reception while William sat close, listening to everything. I could almost hear him breathing. He’d chuckle whenever Mom made a joke. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t anymore. So I had stopped talking to her completely, again deciding it was less painful to have her out of my life than in it. It was easier not to want or expect anything at all from her. I was angry at her for leaving her life here. For staying away. I would never understand how she could. I didn’t want to try.
Grandpa left, and I put Mia in the bath with bubbles and her new doll. Mom called again. I sat on the toilet next to the tub and saw my phone light up in my hand. I ignored it and watched Mia play with her new mermaid. Mia sat in the bath, her skin slick under bubbles, hair sticking to her cheeks. I wanted to crawl over to her, wrap her up in my arms, and place my ear on her chest to listen to her heart.
I wondered if Mom had ever felt this way about me. I wondered why she never leaned in close after she hugged me good night, to give me reassurance of her presence, that she loved me so, so much. I wanted to know, but not enough to ask. Sometimes I’d imagine asking her, demanding it over the phone, but I knew nothing would come of it. She was there; that was enough for her. Maybe that’s all she ever felt she needed to be.
Mia stayed up late that night, not just from the stuffy nose and itchy, painful eyes but because I didn’t want to put her to bed. The happy chirps of her voice kept me from falling into sobs. When she was watching me, I knew I needed to stay strong. We lay down in our twin bed, our heads on the same pillow, and faced each other. Then her eyes closed, her body twitched with sleep, and she let out a sigh, then rhythmic breaths. I watched her, listening.
Mia slept for only an hour before a coughing fit woke her up again. I had already given her all the medicine I could. Her barking cough turned into a sort of growl, angry to be awake and so tired at the same time. I tried shushing her, singing “Wagon