you reach the point where there aren’t any good options.” He knows about Grandma Judy’s situation. It came up last night while we were sitting on the porch of the little cabin talking about the photos and what they might mean.
An attendant in colorful scrubs passes by. She greets us, appearing to wonder if she recognizes me. Then she moves on. I’m glad. The last thing I need is anyone picking up on the fact that I’m here. If this gets back to Leslie and my father, there will be an intense round of questions, and I haven’t a clue what I’d say.
At the doorway to May Crandall’s room, I suddenly realize I’m not sure what I plan to say to her either. Should I just burst in there with the photos and ask, Who were you and my grandmother to one another? How was Trent Turner, Sr., involved?
Should I try to lead into it more subtly? From my short association with May, I have no idea how she’ll react to our coming here. I’m hoping that Trent’s presence may work a bit of extra magic. May did, after all, most likely know his grandfather.
What if it’s all too much for her, the two of us showing up? She has been sick. I don’t want to cause her any more problems. In fact, being back here nudges me toward the realization that I should do something to help her. Maybe I could talk to Andrew Moore at the seniors’ rights PAC. Perhaps he could give me some suggestions about organizations that serve seniors like May whose families live far away.
Trent stops at the door and motions to the nameplate. “Looks like we’re here.”
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I know she’s been sick. I’m not sure how strong she’ll—”
“Who’s hovering around out there?” May puts my uncertainty to rest before I can finish voicing it. “Go away! I don’t need anything. I won’t have you whispering about me!” A slipper flies through the small opening between the door and the frame, and then a hairbrush sails past and clatters across the hall.
Trent recovers the discards. “She’s got a good arm.”
“You leave me be!” May insists.
Trent and I share uncertain looks, and I lean close to the door, avoiding the line of fire just in case May has more ammo at hand. “May? Just listen a minute, okay? It’s Avery Stafford. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago? You liked my dragonfly bracelet. Do you remember?”
Silence.
“You said my grandmother was a friend of yours. Judy. Judy Myers Stafford? You and I talked about the photo you had beside your bed.” It seems as though my whole world has changed since that day.
“Well?” May snaps after a moment. “Are you coming in or not?” Beyond the door, there’s the sound of a body shuffling and bedcovers moving. I don’t know if she’s preparing to greet us or loading up to take another shot.
“Are you finished throwing things?”
“I don’t suppose you’d leave if I weren’t.” But there’s a note of anticipation in her voice this time. She’s inviting me in, so I enter, leaving Trent safely in the hall.
She lies propped up in bed, wearing a blue housecoat that matches her eyes. Even with a stack of pillows behind her, there’s something regal about the way she watches me, as if she was accustomed to service in bed long before her nursing home years.
“I was hoping you’d feel well enough to talk with me today,” I venture. “I asked my grandmother about you. She mentioned Queen…or Queenie, but that was about all she could remember.”
May seems stricken. “She’s that bad?”
“I’m afraid so.” I feel terrible for being the messenger. “Grandma Judy isn’t unhappy. She just can’t remember things. It’s hard for her.”
“And hard for you too, I would imagine?”
May’s sudden insight leaves me floundering emotionally. “Yes, it is. My grandmother and I were always very close.”
“Yet she never told you about the people in my photograph?” Beneath the question, there is the insinuation that this woman knows my grandmother intimately. I’m not sure I’ll be able to resign myself to it if I never find out the truth—if May won’t tell me.
“I have a feeling Grandma Judy would now, if she could. But I’m hoping that, since she can’t, you will.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” May turns her shoulder away from me, as if she’s afraid to have me look directly at her.