It was a kind story. A mother’s story.
I needed it to be true, because the alternative meant admitting there were things about my own daughter I didn’t want to see.
Now, lying in that hospital bed, with my grandson’s words still ringing in my ears, I started to wonder if I’d understood that argument at all.
Part Five: The Glasses
“Walter,” I said softly, “did Aunt Lisa say anything else?”
He hesitated.
“What is it?”
“There was something weird.”
My stomach tightened. “Tell me.”
“She asked me about your glasses.”
“My glasses?”
“Before the accident.”
“When, sweetheart?”
He frowned,
concentrating hard. “A few days before. She asked me, ‘Does your grandma always drive in those old glasses?’”
And just like that, a door in my memory swung open.
The morning of the crash.
I was rushing. I had an eye appointment across town, of all things, and I was running late. I remembered standing in the kitchen, tearing through my purse, the counters, the pockets of my coat.
Lisa had stopped by. She did that sometimes. She was leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“I’m late, and I can’t find my driving glasses. I know I put them in my purse last night.”
“So use the old pair.”
“They’re too weak. Everything goes fuzzy past the end of the block.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, just wear them. You can see fine in those.”
I remembered hesitating. I remembered the clock on the stove.
And then I remembered putting them on.
After that, there were only fragments. A road sign that wouldn’t come into focus. A horn, much too close. The scream of metal.
Then nothing, for eleven days.
The memory dissolved, and I was back in that bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding.
For the first time, I let myself think the unthinkable.
What if the worst mistake I made that morning hadn’t actually been mine?
“Why didn’t you tell me she asked about my glasses?” I asked Walter gently.
He shrugged, miserable. “I didn’t know it mattered.”
