“Yes.”
“From scratch?”
She frowned.
“I am capable of using an oven.”
“I have four years of evidence to the contrary.”
For one second she stared at me.
Then she laughed.
It was small and surprised.
So was mine.
Daniel looked between us as if he had missed a meeting.
Dessert was awkward and lovely.
Emily showed me thirty-seven photographs.
Twenty-two were of the ocean.
Eight were of hotel breakfasts.
Four contained only her own fingers.
Jack showed me a shell he had found and explained that he had returned it to the beach because a sign said visitors should leave natural objects where they found them.
“I took a picture instead.”
“That was smart.”
“Dad wanted to bring it.”
Daniel protested.
“It was a very good shell.”
We laughed.
Nothing was repaired.
But for forty minutes, nothing needed to be.
When I left, Emily ran after me.
“Grandma.”
She handed me another folded paper.
I opened it after reaching the apartment.
It was a drawing.
The four of them stood beside a palm tree.
I stood several inches away in front of a square building.
A dotted line connected us.
Above the line, Emily had written:
GRANDMA STILL LIVES HERE TOO.
