There wasn’t much furniture to speak of; a glass and chrome coffee table pushed against the wall leaving room for the sofa bed when extended. In the kitchenette, two folding chairs with fussy gingham cushions sat parked at a card table covered by a cherry-patterned tablecloth. A worn, rust-colored carpet covered the floor except for a rectangle of dull, white linoleum in front of the refrigerator, sink, and two-burner stove. No pictures or paintings, not even a poster. Instead, a hodgepodge of wallpaper covered the apartment: a puppy and kitten jamboree next to a pattern of pumpkins and fall leaves; in the breakfast area, cheerful teapots romped across the wall. Clearly, Merilee had inherited more than just good looks from her mother. I prayed their taste in décor would not pass down to me.

My grandmother kicked open a television tray and set down a plate of Ritz crackers top-heavy with Cheese Whiz.

“What are you drinking?”

I waited for my mother to answer, then realized Marva was talking to me.

“Um...”

“How’s fruit punch?”

“Great,” I said.

Marva walked to the fridge. From the back, her large, angular frame appeared crooked. She reminded me of Rosalind Russell, the head nun in The Trouble with Angels. Except, of course, for the outfit.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, Mother,” Merilee called after her.

“I’m serving fruit punch. That’s what’s on the menu.”

My mother slumped down on the couch and rolled her eyes to the ceiling like an exasperated teenager.

There was no reading material visible. A bookcase overflowed with miniature glass figurines: bunnies, ducks, chickens, cats with big eyes and plastic whiskers. I was dying to examine them, to weigh the tiny creatures in my hands but was afraid my mother would see this as a sign that I was consorting with the enemy.

Marva returned carrying a bottle of Hi-C and two tumbler glasses filled with ice. She set them on the floor. “Sweet stuff. You got a sweet tooth?” She kneeled in front of us, pouring the punch.

“I guess.”

“You like cookies?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Um, Mallomars?”

“Well, I don’t have those.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

“I have Nilla wafers.”

“Those are great too.”

With a grunt, Marva hoisted herself back on her feet, went to the kitchen, and retrieved a box of cookies from one of the cupboards. I was so thirsty I drank down half the glass of punch before she came back.

“If your mom had told me you liked Mallomars, I would’ve bought ‘em,” she said pointedly, looking over at my mother who stuck her tongue out in return.

“Really, whatever you have is fine, um, Nana,” I said, testing the word. It felt good to say.

She handed me the whole box then sat on the arm next to me. “Now, how’s your dad?”