Chapter 4

BROKEN

I run barefoot from the sandy beach, in and out of the small neighborhoods, all the way to our house. I push open the front door and stumble in.

Grammy’s watching The Price Is Right and leans to the side to look around me when I plant myself in front of the TV.

“Grammy. I have to ask you something.”

“Oh my goodness, honey bunch. Are you ever going to wear shoes?” she asks, shaking her head. “Go get the cream and bandages and let me fix that for you.”

I look down and see my foot is bleeding. I hadn’t even noticed I’d cut it.

“Grammy,” I say, the shrillness of my voice startling me. “Please. Please tell me about my mom. I know you don’t like to talk about her. But I need to know what she was like. Did she sound like me? Was she a runner? Did she love root beer?”

Grammy looks like the time she got a shock from plugging in the toaster.

“And who is my dad? What’s his name?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I would tell you if I knew, but Mellie never told me.”

That hurts.

“Well, then,” I ask, stepping forward, “why did she go? Tell me the truth about my mom.”

“Oh, Delsie. Why do you want to talk about all that? There’s no reason to stir up sad things.”

“I know you don’t like to talk about her, but I just don’t understand why.”

“The same reason I don’t drink coffee,” Grammy says. “Because it hurts my stomach and it makes me feel all terrible inside, and why would I do anything that makes me feel like that?”

“I know it makes you sad to talk about her. I know. But I think if I just knew stuff, it would be better. Not knowing is the worst feeling in the world. Not knowing your mom is like not knowing your birthday. Everyone should know that.”

Sadness flashes across her face and then she pats the couch next to her. “Come sit with your ole grammy. Let’s find out who’ll win the Showcase Showdown. A lady bid on two cars. Two!” She holds up two fingers. She’s wide-eyed and smiling, and I know I won’t learn anything about my mother.

“Later,” I say, walking past her.

I have no intention of going back, and I know she won’t come looking during a Showcase Showdown unless the house is on fire. And even that’s questionable.

My bedroom door squeaks as it closes. I sit on my bed and reach for the picture of my mother in a frame covered in sweet candy pieces and glitter. A picture I have said good night to since Papa Joseph taught me to pray.

My mind whirls like a storm system. Questions break and bruise. Smash and spin.

And I can’t shake seeing the seal and wondering how it can be so much luckier than me. My fingertips turn white from squeezing the frame too hard. The words “it’s not fair” rise up and out of me, and glass bounces on the floor when I throw the picture. And looking at the pieces, I am shattered, too.