Whenever I noticed, he’d smile.
“Old batteries,” he’d tell me.
I didn’t understand what that meant.
My mother did.
She always watched him.
Not obviously.
She thought I didn’t notice.
But I did.
Whenever Grandpa laughed, Mom smiled.
Whenever he coughed, Mom stopped smiling.
Whenever he stood up too quickly, Mom’s eyes followed him.
And whenever I ran toward him, she’d say the same thing.
“Lily, careful.”
Once, I had thrown myself into Grandpa’s arms.
Mom had practically sprinted across the room.
“Don’t do that!”
I remember staring at her.
“Why?”
“Because Grandpa isn’t as young as he used to be.”
That explanation sounded reasonable.
Except Mom never sounded reasonable when she said it.
She sounded frightened.
Then there was the lap rule.
“Don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s older.”
“Grandpa sits in a chair.”
“Exactly.”
“Then why can’t I sit there too?”
“Lily.”
That was my mother’s special voice.
