Page 29 of You Again

I clench my jaw and inwardly groan. “I can do this,” I mutter to myself. “It’s thirty minutes⁠—”

“An hour,” Gram calls. Apparently, my muttering isn’t quiet enough.

Grinding my teeth, I slam my car door closed and follow Gram up to the door of the house. It’s more a cabin with the rounded wooden logs making up the outer walls.

Gram knocks, and the wailing of a baby sounds inside. Crap—am I barging in on a stranger and waking their child?

Stella, the blonde from the café and Fran’s house, opens the door. A chubby baby with a puff of blonde on top of her head sits on Stella’s hips. Her eyes are wide—so not sleeping—and a little red—definitely crying.

“Noreen,” Stella says, her voice happy, but also quite surprised. Her eyes draw up to me, as I am much taller than my five-foot grammy. “Rosalie,” she says, my name almost a whisper. Her mouth turns up in a grin, and yet she looks as if she might cry.

Which makes me want to cry—but I’m guessing for a whole other set of reasons.

The baby in her arms squawks again, more tears filling her little blue eyes. Gosh, she’s pretty. There’s something about those sad eyes that I resonate with, something that calms the race of my heart.

“Sorry. Come in. Ivy’s got a little cold. She’s been a little grumpy today.” Her eyes find me again, and then she glances down at herself. Her oversized T-shirt hangs low over her gray sweatpants, and she’s barefoot. She doesn’t exactly look ready for company. “Please, come in.”

We step inside to a cluttered little front room. It’s a small, homey space, though it looks as if Baby Gap may have exploded inside it.

“Sit down,” she says, moving a baby blanket, stuffed elephant, and box of tissues from the couch to make room for us.

“We’re already running late,” Grammy says. “I thought we’d just get started.”

“Started?” Stella’s eyes narrow.

“Is it not Saturday at eleven in the morning?”

“Ah—” Stella looks at me, her expression of an old friend asking for help. And yet if you put a dozen blondes in a room, I might have to think hard to pick her out. “It is Saturday at eleven.”

“Gram, did you not have a lesson today?” I say, ready to drag her out. She’s going to put me back in the hospital.

“Saturday at eleven is my regular day and time.” Her eyes widen. “Right, Stella? Is this not the day and the time we agreed upon?”

Stella hefts the baby up so that she’s holding her against her chest, the baby facing outward. Ivy’s pretty pink lips buzz with a raspberry. “No—I mean, yes. This is our agreed-upon time. It’s just—” She swallows, glancing at me once more. “You haven’t been able to come… for a few months.”

Six, to be exact.

But Gram looks at her like that doesn’t matter. Like Stella should keep every Saturday at eleven open for her and just be pleased if the woman shows up.

“However,” Stella says, telling me she knows my grandmother. “This is your day and time. Give me five minutes to set up.”

“Give me Ivy,” Gram says. “We need to get reacquainted. It’s been a while.”

Stella hands over her child. “She might be a little grumpy. Oh.” She reaches down, plucking a tissue from the box, and hands it to Gram. “She’ll probably need this, too.” She runs a hand over the little girl’s round face and rosy cheeks. “Be good for Grammy Noreen.”

“Grammy Noreen?” I say once she’s left the room. “How well do we know this woman, Gram?”

“Quite well. I’d wager she’s one of your best friends.”

I gulp. Best friends? Is she saying she’s another Fran and I don’t even recognize her? My heart flutters in that uncomfortable way when I know everyone in the room knows more than me.

Everyone except maybe this baby.

It gives me little comfort. Still, I’m handling myself semi-well. On the outside anyway.

The little girl hums like she’s tired, like her head hurts—I understand the feeling. Still, she’s content in Gram’s arms until she sneezes, drenching Gram’s blouse with mucus.

“Oh dear,” Grammy says.