Chapter 7
Woodfield was picturesque, especially in the autumn, the season that revealed the town at its best. On the way to Lisa’s house, I drove by a general store reminiscent of a Rockwell painting, a post office, a bottle shop, and antique stores catering to the weekend crowd from Boston and New York. I passed the public library. A modest white church with a steeple was near a stone church featuring stained glass windows. The commercial area of Historic Woodfield ended before the significant village green—a lovely meadow with a white bandstand gazebo, two war memorials, and a high-flying American flag. I bet the town hadn’t changed much in the last century.
Lisa lived on Hokum Street, a sharp turn off the main road. There, sundry architectural styles were studded an acre apart. Most homes dated back to the late 1800s. There was no sidewalk; people ambled in the road. Lisa’s house, a proud Victorian, was painted a deep, dark burgundy with trim a shade lighter. I imagined tenants from an earlier time rocking on the porch while sipping hot apple cider.
I couldn’t wait to hug Callie. It was odd how my daughter had taken second place in my heart to her daughter. I read about a study that proved grandmothers are chemically drawn to grandchildren. I didn’t have to square that research. I cherished my children, but I’d trip over Lisa to get to Callie. Of course, I had friends that didn’t feel the same way. Take Maddy. Whenever Maddy’s family showed up in Boca Raton, she said, “The condo wreckers are here.” She counted the minutes until they left. Each year, Maddy treated her now forty-year-old son to tickets to Disney World in Orlando so they’d spend most of Christmas week with Mickey—instead of staying with her. She literally paid her family to disappear. Then there were the nanas who were deceivingly nice to their own grandkids but tormented others at the pool.
Lisa left the doors to her house unlocked. She claimed no one in Woodfield bolted a door. Country girl. I knocked anyway. No one answered, so I stepped into the large living room—shabby chic, a romantic palette, a mix of vintage and modern furniture, charming, warm. Lisa had decorated with accents in light pink, powder blue, lavender, and mint. The walls were ivory. The curtains white with wide ruffles. Two seating areas were centered around large braided oval rugs. An antique desk with a wooden schoolhouse chair sat in a corner. Although my own current choices in home decor were white and contemporary, I admired my daughter’s excellent homey, laid-back taste.
The movie version of the musical Annie blared from an enormous flat-screen TV. I yelled, “Grandma’s here” over a song-and-dance number. Callie popped up from the camelback sofa Lisa had rescued from an estate sale. Then she dove off the back of the couch, landing in my arms. I squeezed her tight.
“Grandma Jo,” she shouted.
“That’s me,” I said, beaming.
Macallan wore the kind of clashing hodgepodge outfit she preferred, an adorable mash-up of bright colors and patterns: two purposefully mismatched socks, purple checked leggings, a stretch miniskirt with daisies, a unicorn T-shirt. Her hair was in pigtails, one elastic red and the other orange. I liked her hair in pigtails. When her hair was down, it appeared as though she’d just gotten off a swing on a windy day. Trouble was, I was not handy with hair. Styling had been one of the failures of motherhood for me, Lisa scurrying off when I approached her with a brush. Hair-wise, for Callie, it could be a hair-raising time.
I twirled her around as though we were dancing.
“Where’s Pop?”
“He’s away on business,” I said, having no intention of revealing to an eight-year-old that her grandfather was in the worst funk of his life, that if I hung around before or after work, and he persisted in shadowing me from room to room, he’d bring me down with him. In fact, I’d always been hard put to tell a child anything unpleasant. What was the point?
“Aw. I wanted to see him. Now I can’t beat him at chess in person.”
“There’s time for that,” I assured her.
“You’re right. Should I win slow or fast?”
“Well, you know how much I love Pop Jake.”
“A lot,” she said. “Is he your BFF?”
“Yes, but only in Florida. In Massachusetts, you’re my bestie.”
“So, what should I do?” she said.
“I say be kind. Put him out of his misery quickly.”
“Good advice, Grandma Jo.”
Tell me your mother didn’t leave you here alone was what I was thinking, but would not say, when a young girl emerged from the kitchen and said, “Hey.” Not hello. Hey.
“Hey,” I replied, struck by how pretty she was, admiring her charming, crooked smile and the mahogany hair hitting her waist. She wore untied high-top sneakers paired with ripped faded jeans. She had an Oxford boyfriend shirt tied to expose her tattooed midriff. She opened a one-hundred-calorie bag of Emaciated Person Popcorn and held it out to me. I figured the girl for seventeen, perhaps a drop older.
“Hello,” I said, waving away the popcorn, offering my hand for a shake.
She placed her hand in mine—an outgoing, assured gesture that was beyond her teenage years. I recalled the sitters I had employed when my kids were young, many unable to converse with an adult or look one in the eye.
The movie continued streaming as Callie invited me to kiss her stuffed tarantula, Chester, a gift from her dad. I planted one on the stuffie. Although I couldn’t hear well over the movie, I wasn’t about to ask the sitter to lower the volume because I preferred not to sound like I was my age. If I said, Can you please speak up? she’d surely clock me for 108. I tried my best not to say things that made younger people assume I was a relic, which required effort because I lived in an area with many retired people and therefore was not attuned to contemporary lingo. If they still referred to it as lingo . In any case, Callie wouldn’t require a sitter now that I’d arrived. I’d pay her and send her on her way.
The teenager reached for the remote, lowered the volume. “Annie,” she said.
“I know,” I assured her as I looked at the flat-screen. “And the dog is Sandy.”
“Not in the movie. Here. Me. I’m Annie.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Jodi Wexler, Callie’s grandma.”
“Lisa said you were coming. I had a dog named Jodi, an ankle biter.”
My namesake.
“Jodi was bizarre. I found her behind a dumpster on Elm Street, but I had to give her away. My old man doesn’t like animals.”
“But he likes Chester,” Callie put in.
I deliberated. Was the sitter referring to her dad or her boyfriend? I didn’t ask. I figured she babysat often because Callie knew her “old man.” Her “old man” liked Chester the tarantula.
“Also, I had a cat. Taco,” she continued. “Because I love tacos. He was feral. Until I adopted him. He tracked me. Like, if I was going to the store, he shadowed me there, waited outside for a treat. Unless, of course, I was at Arlo’s country store. Arlo never minded if Taco came in. Before he bought the store, Arlo was a coach at the high school in North Adams. Oh—he sells bananas if you need potassium.”
Would she ever stop talking? And if so, would it be in my lifetime? Since I doubted it, I interrupted as she mentioned out of nowhere that she ran marathons but had foot problems. I stifled my impulse to ask about her foot, though, afraid she’d start telling me the entire backstory of her pain. How she first injured her metatarsal kicking in her crib.
“Lisa told me you’re going to stay here for a while,” Annie said. “Definitely come by the gym in the town of Hilltop and try my exercise class. You’re perfect for Golden Oldies.”
I wasn’t sure if Golden Oldies referred to the music or the participants. Or maybe both. No matter what, Golden Oldies was not something I believed I was perfect for.
Macallan stood on the back of the couch in her socks, holding Chester, listening to our conversation. She was the reason I made the trip, why I had canceled appointments, left Jake on his own. And here I was killing precious time interacting with the babysitter.
“Well, it’s great to meet you.” I looked in my bag for my wallet so I could pay her. I had no idea what she charged or how long she’d been there. The last time I’d hired a sitter, the rate was five dollars an hour. I asked Annie what I owed her.
She ignored me. I inquired again.
“Oh, you’re cute. I’m here for the Netflix.”
“We also have Disney Plus, Hulu, and Prime,” Callie said.
“Lisa is fine with me watching whenever I want to. I love movies. Don’t you love movies? Have you seen any new ones?” she asked.
Divine intervention—Callie interrupted. “Mom is at the restaurant.”
“I know. I stopped by. She was being interviewed.”
“On TV? Did they interview you too?” Callie asked.
“Yes.”
“Because you’re her mom,” Callie said.
Annie was pleased to update me on what had occurred since I left the restaurant. “The big interview with Nicki was a success, but then— pow —the dishwasher exploded.”
“I guess she’ll need a new model.”
“Not the appliance. The guy who washes the dishes,” Annie corrected me.
Eager to be on my own with Macallan, I silently begged Annie to leave, but she chattered on. And on. Someone must have told her talk was cheap. “Well, I’m sure you’re a busy person. I can take over. That’s what I’m here for,” I finally said, smiling.
“Don’t be concerned about me. I’ve got lots of time.”
I can see that, I thought.
“I love hanging with Mac,” she said.
Mac? I had never heard anyone call Macallan by the name Mac.
“Don’t forget your drink,” I said, attempting to push things along and gesturing to the enormous Dunkin’ Donuts to-go cup on the end table.
She picked up the cup, hugged it to her chest as though it were lost treasure. “Did you know that Dunkin’ Donuts was first started here in Massachusetts? Nine out of ten times, I go for the cruller. What’s your fave?”
Honey dipped, I thought but didn’t say. An answer would bring on another question.
“Come, sweetheart, bring Chester, and help me carry in my suitcase,” I said to Callie, realizing Annie would leave only if I left first.