Love Songs & Other Lies(4)

2.??Lake Michigan is the closest substitute to the ocean.

3.??Anonymity.

I’m in Riverton for a fresh start, and anonymity isn’t an issue when it comes to my visits to Lake Terrace. If there’s one place I can count on not being recognized—in a town full of people who don’t know me—it’s in room 207. Even though she doesn’t remember me, I still enjoy visiting. I like having this piece of my old life. Knowing Gram was here made Riverton a logical choice, over the thousands of other cities I could have fled to, where I’d be equally anonymous.

We never visited Gram much when we lived in California. We came for the occasional holiday, and for a week every summer until I was twelve. We were always saying we’d make the trip more often—that eventually we would visit more. And like a million other promises, that one was broken when my parents died last year. We ran out of eventuallys.

On days she’s feeling talkative, Gram likes to tell me stories. About how she met my grandfather when she was sixteen, or the girls’ softball team she played on in her twenties, when she was “quite a looker.” She talks about growing up on a farm with eight siblings, which always leads to talk of animals, which somehow devolves into her views on vegetarianism. Gram is no friend of PETA. They probably have her picture on a watch list somewhere.

“Do you know there are people who don’t eat meat?” she says incredulously, as if these are the same types of weirdos who kidnap children or skin kittens. “It’s not natural. You’re not one of those vegetable-eaters, are you?”

“No, Gram.”

Sometime after bashing vegetarians and recalling her glory years as an editor at a local newspaper, Gram falls asleep. This is usually my cue to leave. But today a soft voice on the other side of the curtain distracts me as I gather my things. It’s the first time a visitor has come while I was here. She sounds young—her voice is peppier than the nurses’, not as tired and formal—and the way she speaks is so intimate that it feels wrong to barge through. So I sit back down. I can wait a few minutes to leave; I have nowhere to be and no one to answer to—another perk of living in Riverton, I think bitterly.

“Sorry I’m late, Nonni.” Her voice is barely a whisper, and the sliding of the metal chair overpowers it as it grates across the floor. “I lost track of time after work, I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Oh, honey, come here.” I hear the wet snap of kisses. “You look so skinny. Are you eating?”

“Oh, please.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Of course I’m eating. Would you look at these legs, Nonni, they’re like oak trees!” She laughs and it’s a loud, musical sound that bounces around the room and makes me smile. “Are they still treating you okay in here?” Her voice is light and jovial. “They haven’t tried to put you to work yet, have they? I hope they don’t have a quilting sweatshop set up somewhere.” Her voice is deadpan now. “You better pull your weight, or they might make you sleep out on the lawn.”

When I hear Evelyn gasp, I have to bite my lip hard to keep from laughing.

“You think they have a sweatshop?” she asks.

The girl’s bouncing laugh makes its trip around the room again.

“No, no, I’m just being silly. There’s no sweatshop.”

“You know, I stayed in a sweat lodge in the desert for two days when I was your age, Ginny.” Evelyn states this like it’s a fact you can find in a history book.

“You were in school when you were my age, Nonni. Or married, probably. And a sweat lodge isn’t the same as a sweatshop.”

“Well, close to your age then.”

I’m hunched forward in my chair, elbows on my knees, as I listen like one of those cross-legged kids in front of an old-timey radio in a black-and-white movie. Or like a stalker. It’s a matter of perspective, I guess. I should have left earlier, because I can’t do it now without looking like I’m hiding. I don’t want to leave, though; this conversation—that I’m not even a part of—is the first thing that’s interested me in months.

“That’s what you should be doing, Ginny,” Evelyn says.

“I should be hanging out in a sweat lodge?”

“It’s not warm enough for that here, dear.”

That laugh again. Something about it makes me want to join in. It’s compelling.

“You should be young and wild, out having fun. Meeting boys. Not hanging out with old ladies.”

“Well, you’re not just any old lady, are you? I love our Monday nights together. And I was at the beach earlier. With boys.”

Have I seen her before?

“Plus, I have band practice after this. So that’s wild. And crazy.” Her voice is sarcastic, almost theatrical. “Bands are very wild and crazy, Nonni, you have no idea. If you did, you probably wouldn’t even approve! Tomorrow I’ll bring my guitar, and we can be wild and crazy together, okay?”

I think of my own guitar, neglected since moving here, and wonder what kind of band she’s in. There’s a picture of her being pieced together in my mind.

Noticeably thin.

Tree trunk legs.

I’ve been in bands before, but never with girls. I don’t even know any girls in bands, but I picture neon tights, short shorts, and a ripped T-shirt that hangs off of her shoulder. Something with a skull on it, maybe. She’s confident, sarcastic—she seems like the kind of girl who could pull that sort of thing off. The kind of girl who comes to school in leather pants with purple hair, and then three days later it’s green.