One of these things is not like the others.
I slide the letter and clipping from the envelope and compare dates. I reread everything and my mind spins in circles, but it’s ultimately what I don’t see that stops me.
One of these things just doesn’t belong.
Nowhere in the last letter does Grandfather talk about sunsets and camp shovels. He doesn’t refer to Grandmother or anyone by name. I hold up the news clipping and take another look at the handwriting in the margin. It’s not looping and feminine like Grandmother’s. It’s thin and slopes severely to the right. Louie. Love of my life. I am demolished was not written by Grandmother, and nowhere in any of her letters does she call him Louie.
“Oh my God,” I say out loud. The letter wasn’t written to my grandmother.
Mom’s snores fill my room, and I look at the monitor.
Grandfather “Louie” was as gay as a box of sprinkles.
20
July 13
Mom flirts at the Cheesecake Factory.
A display case of men.
Choices.
WE’VE CIRCLED July 25 for Lindsey’s baby shower and set out in the red beast for our second shopping trip together. This time I will not be talked into boots and a twenty-dollar trim.
First on our list, Party City. Of course, Mom complains about her neck all the way there. She’s in a cranky mood, and I wonder if she looked in her little jewelry box and discovered her missing pills. As we get a cart, she throws the stink eye at two loud teens looking at wigs.
“Kids these days.”
I grab a cart and test the waters. “Are you going to be okay?”
“My neck’s kinked up from your driving.”
I’ve kept my eyes on Mom for a month now, and she hasn’t opened the drawer in her bedside table. “I only kinked your neck once.” At least not at night.
“Three times.”
If something other than a kinked neck were responsible for her mood, she’d let me know. “It’s a big car. I can’t help it.” I defend myself on the way to the baby shower section.
“Lindsey doesn’t kink my neck.”
I point to a big Mylar balloon in the shape of a baby bottle. “We should get that,” I say to distract her.
“It’s huge!”
I find the aisle with baby shower supplies and stop at the blue section, where Mother and I argue over the “Beary Cute” party theme or the “Little Peanut” party theme. Mother gets her way, and we go with Little Peanut. The smallest party kit is for twelve people, and I toss it in the cart. I guess we’ll be using elephant paper plates, cups, napkins, and plastic flatware for a while. I throw in some blue streamers, tissue pom-poms, and wrapping paper while Mom loads the cart with an Advice for Parents baby shower book, an elephant cake topper, and matching favor boxes. I don’t know who she thinks we’re giving out favors to, but what the hell. We’re having fun, and whatever we don’t find today, I can order and have delivered.
I load everything into the back of the Escalade and strap Mom into the passenger side. Next stop, Lakeside Shopping Center and its 130 stores. On the way, I kink Mom’s neck only twice. Progress.
I know that Lindsey has mentioned some baby furniture she’s ordered, but I thought Mom and I could get her a little bed for when Frankie is downstairs. I pick out a beautiful white wicker cradle that you can take out of the stand and use as a Moses basket. Mom is fascinated with a fifteen-hundred-dollar cradle that detects the baby’s sounds and motions and automatically rocks and plays downloaded music tracks. I win this debate, but Mom picks out the blue checked bedding.
We move from store to store, suckers for every cute onesie we see. Believe me, there are a lot of them, and who knew there were so many choices in baby blankets and strollers? Not me, and Mom seems just as confused. I make an executive decision and get the car-seat-and-stroller combo. Mom manages to find a bottle that looks like a boob and a plush elephant with a blue necktie.
“It’s like the Dumbo you had as a kid,” she says.
Not quite, but that’s a mistake that anyone could easily make. “Remember when you used to sing ‘Baby of Mine’?”
“No.” She scowls and wrings her hands. “I never did that.”