The Year She Left Us by Kathryn Ma Page B

alone with Gran; later, she told me that she hadn’t wanted to be used as a babysitter when I was little, but at nine years old I wouldn’t need minding, and my company was finally of interest. Les wasn’t home, and as soon as I got there, Gran told me to keep my jacket on; we were going out. I wondered if Gran knew her way around on the city buses as well as Charlie did, and then Gran walked straight for the stairs to Les’s garage, lifting Les’s car keys from a hook beside the door.
    â€œI haven’t driven in months,” Gran said with satisfaction. She frowned when she saw dried bird shit on Les’s windshield. “Neither has Lesley, I’m bound to say. Get in. How do you get that door up?”
    I pushed the button that raised the garage door, pleased that Gran had asked me. Charlie usually did things for me, and Les did things for herself; for a grown-up to assume that I knew what to do made me stand up straighter. I scrambled into the shotgun seat and showed Gran how to push back the driver’s seat so she could unscrunch her legs. Sitting close to her, I noticed that she was a lot bigger than I had thought; the steering wheel looked small in her hands, and the top of her head almost reached the sunroof. She wore a loose bracelet of black and green jade and a gold pin of a poodle with a big pearl for the poodle’s topknot. Even with Gran sitting down, her large bosom bobbled and wobbled, but the poodle didn’t budge.
    â€œIn Taipei,” Gran said, “one of course has to use a driver. Taking the car for a spin is what I miss most about not living in L.A. That, and my beautiful restaurant.” I didn’t know anything about a restaurant, but before I could ask her, she slung her arm over the back of the seat and backed rapidly out of the garage.
    I don’t remember what kind of car Les drove in those days, but I know that as soon as we got going, Gran stuck in a CD of opera music that blared loudly. Did Gran not want to talk to me? I was worried that my being there was a chore or a duty, not for me but for Gran, who clearly had a plan for the day that might or might not include me.
    â€œTurn that down,” Gran said. “And tell me how to get to Divisadero.”
    All my bus riding around the city had given me a pretty good idea of how to direct her, and soon Gran was pulling into a car wash on the corner. She got out and ordered the works then asked me to sign her name on the credit card slip—she didn’t have her reading glasses, and how could anyone see such a tiny scrap of paper, no bigger than a tea bag and curled up like a snail?
    â€œWhere I come from,” she informed the balding Chinese lady behind the cash register, a woman as old as Gran but only half as tall, “we give a proper receipt for payment rendered.”
    â€œMaybe you go back. You happy there. No room for you here.” The woman pushed her pen in my direction. “You granddaughter. She speak English?”
    â€œBetter than you,” Gran said. She waited patiently while I considered. I could tell she didn’t care if I took all the time in the world.
    â€œDo you have a pencil?” I finally blurted. I didn’t like pens; I used only pencils, a rule I had that worried my teachers but didn’t bother Charlie, who excused my peculiarity as “an exploration of identity and boundaries.” I didn’t know what she meant. I knew only that ink stayed put on the page, but if I wrote in pencil, I could erase everything and start all over again.
    â€œYou sign,” the woman insisted, and shoved her pen at me again. “Hurry up,” she said. “People waiting.” Behind us in line, several people inched forward. Gran calmly opened her handbag and took out a slim leather case.
    â€œYou may use this,” she said. I opened the case and slid out a pen and a matching mechanical pencil. I’d never seen one so beautiful before.