What I Thought Was True Read Online Free PDF Page B

Ellington. Her hair’s whiter and she’s
    holding a cane, one ankle tightly wrapped in an Ace bandage,
    but she’s still beautifully dressed, pearls on, smile broad.
    “Gwen! Your mother says you are Gwen now, not Gwennie.
    I’m delighted to see you.” Propping her cane against the wall, she pulls open the screen door, then holds out both hands.
    I slide my bag o’ lobsters down behind my back and take
    her hands, her skin loose and fragile as worn silk.
    “So you’re to be my babysitter this summer! How it does
    come round,” Mrs. Ellington continues. “When you were tiny,
    I used to hold you in my lap on the porch while your mother
    cleaned. You were a dear little thing . . . those big brown eyes,
    that cloud of curls.”
    There’s a note of melancholy in her voice when she uses the
    word babysitter that makes me say, “I’m just here to be—”A friend? A companion? A watchdog? “I’m just here to keep you
    company.”
    Mrs. Ellington squeezes my hands, lets them go. “That’s
    lovely. I was just getting ready to enjoy a nice cool drink on the porch. How do you like your iced tea?”
    I don’t drink tea, so I draw a blank. Luckily Mrs. Ellington
    steams ahead. “It was quite warm this morning, so I made a
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    big batch of wild cranberry, which should be perfect now. Per-
    sonally, I adore it cold and very sweet with lemon.”
    “That sounds good,” I say, glancing around the kitchen.
    It looks the same as when Nic and I were little—morning-
    sky-pale-blue walls, appliances creamy white, navy-and-white
    checked cloth on the table, another Crayola-bright bunch of
    zinnias in a cobalt glass pitcher on the counter.
    When Mom makes iced tea it’s a two-step process—scoop-
    ing out the sugary powder and mixing it with cold water. Mrs.
    Ellington’s iced tea is a production involving implements I
    never knew existed. First there’s the bucket for ice and spe-
    cial silver tongs. Then the lemon and another silver thingie to
    squeeze it. Then a little slanted bowl to set the tea bag in. Then another little bowl for the squeezed lemon.
    Mrs. E.’s blue-veined hand opens the cabinet, flutters like
    a trapped bird, hovering between two glass canisters. After
    a second, she selects one, the one with rice in it. The one I
    know from years of coastal weather must contain the salt. Rice
    keeps salt from sticking in the moist heat. She places it on the
    counter, starting to screw off the top.
    I put my hand on top of hers gently. “I think maybe it’s the
    other one.”
    Mrs. Ellington looks up at me, her hazel eyes blank for a
    moment. Then they clear, clouds moving away from the sun.
    She touches her fingers to her temple. “Of course. Ever since
    that silly fall I’ve been all in a muddle.” She shifts the canister back onto the shelf, takes down the other one.
    Then scooping the sugar into a silver canister . . . and
    some sort of scalloped spoon . . . This process was obvi-
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    ously designed by someone who didn’t have to do their own
    dishes. Or polish their own silver. Mrs. Ellington again asks
    me how I like my tea, and I want to say “with everything”
    just to see how it all works. But I repeat “Cold and sweet,” so
    she removes a frosted-cold glass from the freezer. She blends
    sugar in the bottom and finally pours tea for me, then does
    the same for herself.
    “Let’s have this on the porch,” she suggests.
    I start to follow her, but remember Grandpa Ben’s gift. Just
    in time. One of the lobsters is again crawling for its life, this
    time scrabbling down the hallway toward the back door. I hast-
    ily snatch it up and put it, indignantly waving claws and all,
    back into the soggy paper bag.
    I’d have expected Mrs. Ellington to be horrified, hand
    pressed against her heart, but instead she’s laughing. “Dear Ben
    Cruz,” she says. “Still