Chapter 7 - Grocery Cover
I was seven and still holding Ellie when Grandpa Ray came back through the front door with paper bags cutting into his hands.
I heard the creak first. Then his shoes on the tile. He'd left for maybe twenty minutes after sitting in his car, and Mom had stayed in the dining area with her laptop open and her phone face-down. I had stayed on the couch with my legs tucked up because the bedroom felt too bright. The elephant was damp where I'd breathed on it.
He set the bags on the counter too loud on purpose, to sound cheerful. "Got bread, turkey, applesauce, and those crackers you like," he said. "Let me make lunch. You go get your work done."
Mom stood in the doorway between dining and kitchen. She still had on the gray blazer. Her hair was pulled back now. "Dad, you don't have to do that."
"I want to," he said. "Go on. I've got her."
That was the first scene I remember clearly — him unpacking while I watched from the stool. He moved slow around our kitchen like he was learning it. He rinsed his hands. He asked where the plates were and I pointed. His tan jacket was draped over a chair. His blue shirt had a wrinkle across the stomach from the seatbelt.
For a while it was almost normal. He made sandwiches and cut mine in triangles. He put ice in water for himself. The fridge hummed. The daylight through the window over the sink made squares on the floor.
Then Mom came in to make the juice.
She didn't ask. She just opened the fridge and took out the orange juice carton and poured it into one of my cups with the white lid. The same kind of cup from my bed that morning. Yellow-orange through the plastic. She opened the cabinet above the coffee maker — the one with the Band-Aids and the thermometer — and reached to the back shelf.
I remember Grandpa going still by the stove. He didn't stop buttering bread. But his eyes followed her hand.
"What time is it, Jen?" he asked, casual.
She glanced at the microwave. "Twelve forty."
"She naps after lunch?" he said.
"She rests," Mom said. "She needs it. I have a call at one."
She stirred something into the cup with a straw. I couldn't see what it was. A small bottle, then the cap back on quick. She pushed the cabinet shut with her elbow.
She set the cup in front of me beside my plate. "Drink, Maya."
I shook my head. My stomach felt full of sleep already. "I'm not thirsty."
"Maya," she said, sharper. Then softer, tired. "Please. Just drink it so you can rest and I can work."
I looked at Grandpa. He was watching me, not her. He gave me a tiny nod, like it was okay.
I put the straw in my mouth because I always did what Mom asked when her voice got like that. The juice was sweet and a little bitter underneath. I swallowed twice and pushed it away.
"Good girl," Mom said. She kissed the top of my head and her blazer smelled like laundry. She took her laptop to the dining table where I could see her through the doorway.
Grandpa sat across from me with his own sandwich untouched. He slid my cup a half inch closer to him without moving his chair, memorized the level against the light. "Twelve forty-six," he murmured, almost to himself, and tapped his watch.
I ate half my triangle. My eyelids got heavy the way they had that morning. Ellie sat propped against my water glass, facing me like a guard.
"Stay with me, peanut," Grandpa whispered. "Eat your apple."
I tried. The kitchen clock ticked. From the dining area came Mom's work voice, bright and awake. "Hi, yes, I'm here — can you hear me?" Her fingers clicked.
By one fifteen my cheek was on my arm on the table. The sandwich plate blurred. Grandpa's hand was warm on my back, rubbing small circles through my blue shirt.
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"I've got you," he said quietly. "You're not alone."
I drank the rest because Mom checked from the doorway and lifted her chin at the cup, and I didn't want her to be mad. Grandpa didn't stop me. He just watched, and wrote nothing down, but I could tell he was counting in his head.
