Trullia and I trudge inside. Grandma sips a cup of hot tea, blowing on it to cool it off. Her small bare feet are propped up in the recliner.
“Look at the kitchen table, Lily,” Grandma says.
I do, and there’s my painting of Queenie Grace, taped back together. It’s not a perfect tape job and doesn’t exactly match up just right, but Grandma Violet was able to dig all the pieces from the trash can.
“You put it back together,” I say. “I can’t believe you found all the pieces.”
“You can put anything back together, if you want it badly enough, and I want that painting,” Grandma says. “Never throw away your art. Your art is part of you.”
I just shrug.
“Come sit with me, Lily,” she says, and pats her lap. “Family needs to be together on these kind of nights.”
Grandma releases the recliner and I perch on her tiny lap.
“Is Queenie Grace doing okay?” I ask, and my grandmother circles me with her arms.
“Nobody answered the phone,” she says. “I tried to find out, but nobody answered. I guess we will have to wait until morning.”
I sigh. Night is too long, and morning seems like a lifetime away.
“So,” Trullia says, sinking down into the other chair. “I have some things to say.” She takes out a cigarette, but then remembers and puts it away.
My grandmother sips her tea, carefully, behind me.
“So,” Trullia says, “I left, and I never should have done it like that. I should have maybe tried some counseling, or at least taken you with me, but I just up and left. If I could take it back I would, but it’s like a breath: here and gone. No getting it back again. I think that maybe I was depressed and I had lots of problems, and I didn’t even know what the heck I was thinking or feeling. And that’s why I just kind of left you alone with your dad, because I knew he could take care of you. I knew he would take care of you.”
She blows out a breath like she’s smoking. Grandma jiggles her knees beneath me, as if she’s trying to soothe a fussy baby. Or maybe she’s just nervous.
“And so I know I was wrong. Your father did nothing wrong. It was just that I was young and dumb and didn’t know what I wanted. I wasn’t ready to be a mother, and I wouldn’t have been a good one, Lily. It was for the best that I left.”
My grandmother nods.
“She was a mess when she came to us, honey. Needed medication and needed a place to rest. We never judged her, or blamed her. Nobody really knew what exactly was wrong, or how to fix it. We just tried to help her get better, but we never, ever said that she’d made a good choice. We just loved her, and that’s all we could do. We all do our best with what we have at the time.”
I nod, look down at my legs.
“Queenie Grace helped her a lot,” says my grandmother. “It was as if Queenie Grace knew that Trullia had some problems, and she just loved her, too. Accepted her without reservations or judgment. Why, Queenie Grace might have even saved our daughter’s life.”
“She did,” Trullia says. “And I didn’t always show it, but I loved her, too. I always loved her. I still love her.”
“So it was just . . . you?” I ask Trullia. “Just that you weren’t . . . right?”
Trullia nods, sad and slow.
“I wasn’t well,” she says. “I wouldn’t have been able to take good care of you, not at that time.”
Grandma puts her tea down on the end table.
“Are you okay now?” I ask Trullia. “Did you get . . . better?”
She ekes out a small, tight smile.
“Lily,” she says, “I am so much better, especially now that you’re here. I know that I seem mean sometimes, that I seem to not care. But it’s probably my illness making me that way, not that I’m trying to make excuses. Really, I do care. I just don’t know how to show it, so sometimes it might seem like I’m being a jerk. And every day—every single minute of every single day—is still a struggle for me.”
“Trullia,” says Grandma behind me, “I think that you’re making excuses. It was just that you weren’t ready to be a mother, and you would not have been a good one. You were very immature.”
“You’re right, Mom,” Trullia admits. “And, Lily, I’m sorry. I am so . . . very sorry.”
She looks at me, and her eyes’ light is blue and so clear, and I know that she’s being honest and true. I know just what to do.
And then I make the first move: I stand up and go to Trullia and I draw her into a big strong hug that feels a lot like forgiveness. She hugs me back, shaking. I wrap her in my arms as if I’m the grown-up. It makes me feel strong. This feels like hope and faith, faith that things really will be okay.
“It’ll be all right,” I say. “Trullia, it’ll be okay. I promise.”
I still can’t quite bring myself to call her “Mom.” I just can’t. But this, tonight, it’s a start.