Chapter 3 - What Mom Puts In
I was seven that morning and I remember how heavy my arms felt, like they belonged to somebody sleepier than me. Grandpa Ray had sat down on the edge of my bed and the mattress dipped under him. The light cover bunched up by my knees. The purple gift bag was still by his brown shoe, tipped sideways, its white handles folded over. Ellie, my new gray elephant, was tucked under my chin. I could smell new stuffed animal on her, clean and a little plasticky.
He didn’t rush me. That was what I liked. Mom always moved fast around the room, picking things up, checking her phone. Grandpa just sat there with his hands on his knees, his tan jacket pulling a little at the shoulders. He smiled at me again, but it wasn’t as big as when he’d come through the doorway.
“You thirsty, honey?” he asked, quiet. He nodded toward the bedside, where my juice cup sat.
I looked at it. The yellow-orange juice glowed a little in the daylight coming through the blinds. The white lid had a dent near the straw. I reached for it slow because my fingers felt thick and dumb. I missed once, then got it. The plastic was cool and a little sticky at the bottom. I could hear the straw squeak when I pulled it up.
Grandpa watched my hand. I saw him notice the way I had to use both hands to hold it steady. I took a small sip. It tasted sweet and a little medicine-y that day, like orange with something sharp underneath. I made a face before I could stop it.
He kept his voice easy. “Good?”
I shrugged and set the cup back down careful so it wouldn’t tip on the light blanket. “It makes me sleepy,” I said. My voice sounded far away to me. “Mom mixes it.”
I didn’t think it was a bad thing to say. She did it in the kitchen while she was on her earbuds. She’d shake something into the cup and stir it with the straw. I’d watched her legs in her dark work pants moving by the counter. I remember thinking that was just how moms made juice when they needed you to take a nap so they could work.
Grandpa went very still. Not like frozen-scared. Like he stopped breathing for a second to listen better. His smile stayed, but his eyes changed. He looked at the cup, then at me, then at the cup again. His hand tightened a little on his knee. The knuckles went white.
I leaned harder against his arm because sitting up straight felt like too much work. Ellie’s trunk poked my cheek. The room was bright, too bright, and the white hallway light spilled in from the open door behind him. I could hear Mom’s shoes somewhere far off, down near the stairs, and the low murmur of her phone voice.
“When does she mix it?” he asked. He said it light, like he was asking about cereal or cartoons. But his jacket rustled when he shifted closer, and I felt his arm come around my back to hold me up.
I blinked slow. “When I’m fussy,” I said. I yawned into Ellie’s head. “Then I sleep.”
He nodded once. “Every day?”
I thought about it. The juice was always there after lunch. And sometimes at night by my pillow. I couldn’t keep the days straight because they all felt swimmy. “Lots,” I said. That was the best word I had.
He didn’t say that wasn’t right. He didn’t say poor baby or get mad. He just rubbed my back once, small circles through my blue shirt, and said, “Okay. Okay, sweetheart.” His voice was steady, but I felt his chest go up and down too fast where my head rested on his side.
I picked the straw up again because my mouth was dry. He didn’t stop me, but his hand hovered near the cup, like he wanted to move it and didn’t want to scare me. I took one more sip and the cold hit my teeth. The sweetness sat on my tongue.
That was when the bang came.
It was loud from downstairs, metal or wood slamming, and it shook through the floorboards up into the bed. I jumped and the juice sloshed. Grandpa caught the cup before it tipped, his hand quick and sure. Straw rattled against the lid. My heart thumped hard for a second and then slowed way down again.
“What was that?” I whispered.
He glanced toward the open doorway, toward the hallway and the stairs beyond. His face had gone serious, the way grown-ups look when they’re listening for danger. Then he looked back down at me and softened it on purpose. I could tell he was doing it for me.
“Just the house settling, I bet,” he said. “I got you.”
May you like
I believed him because I wanted to sleep. My eyelids kept dropping. The daylight went blurry around the edges. Ellie was warm now from my hands. Grandpa eased me back against the pillows, keeping one arm behind me so I didn’t flop. The juice cup sat where he’d set it, safe near the lamp, straw leaning.
I heard him breathe out slow through his nose. He didn’t move away. The last thing I remember before I drifted was his blue shirt sleeve against my cheek and his low voice, more to himself than to me, saying, “Alright,” like he’d decided something and didn’t like it.
