I tell Grandma what I haven’t told anyone else. I gave this psychotherapist my dating history since med school, starting with Annie. Next came Erin, who split up with me after I left her brother’s wedding ceremony to file a breaking story about lead-tainted Chinese dog bones killing pooches. Good story, bad timing. Erin said I despised any celebration of permanence.
Each relationship grew progressively shorter, mostly ended by me.
“At this point, I can meet someone at a party or on a hike, fall for her and split up before I’ve asked her out,” I tell Grandma.
“I think you’d like talking to the box,” she says.
“I am by career and emotion a journalist. I write short stories, complete them, move on to another subject. I can’t even commit to an idea, a subject matter, let alone a life partner.”
I’d been looking straight ahead but I turn to her. “The obvious conclusion is that I hate commitment. But what’s truer is that I love endings.”
“Is something coming to an end?”
“I love the sense of freedom that comes from being finished, however momentarily. I relish the moment I become free.”
“I think you’d enjoy talking to the box,” Grandma repeats.
“What box?”
“The computer. It listens to you all day, even if you get boring or no one wants to hear your story.”
I laugh. “Probably costs less than a shrink.”
“I don’t think you usually talk this much,” she says. “It’s nice.”
I sigh. For some reason, I’d expected Grandma to dole out wisdom or comfort, like she used to.
“Can you tell me how I can get as big a rush out of being with one person as I can from the moment I become free?”
Grandma responds: “Our generation liked mixed drinks, or beer. Yours seems to like mobile phones.”
I smile. Lane offers wisdom after all. Maybe my problem is technology. The Internet age exacerbates my frenetic characteristics. Information, ideas, emotions flit in and out — a veritable blog of a world with constant updates and no time to stand still. My head and gut on a swivel. My thoughts, emotions, and memories more fleeting than ever. The opportunities to create new ones more powerful. I live from one brief moment of purpose to the next.
“Grandma, what did you talk about with the box?”
“In due time,” she says, absently.
“Grandma?”
No response.
I glance at the clock on my phone; five minutes after three. I got lost in mystery, and in Lane’s relative loquaciousness. I take stock of our surroundings.
There is no one standing at the entrance to the complex — no L. P., the initials from the mystery package, no “Adrianna,” the name of someone Grandma says can’t breathe.
Nor is there anyone on any of the four corners of the intersection of Hayes and Buchanan.
We sit ten more minutes in silence.
“Grandma, I’m going to have to explore.”
“If you say so.”
“You should join me.”
I unbuckle Grandma’s seat belt, then go around to the passenger side of the car to help her out. I give her my arm to hold, but she pushes it away.
“I’m not an invalid.”
We cross the street to the Westside Apartments. It’s a squat three-story building that from the address directory next to an intercom looks to have some two dozen apartments.
I look down the directory to see if any names have the initials L. P. I have no reason to believe that the sender of the mystery package is a resident here, but I’ve got to start somewhere. There are two residents with a last name that starts with P. One is Renee Peal, and the other has no first name. The little strip of paper just says: “Pederson.”
As I’m glancing down the list, a tall, older man with stooped shoulders approaches the building door and inserts his key. His hand shakes lightly with the earliest onset of Parkinson’s. He opens the door, and starts to close it behind him. Before it can shut, I slip my hand in the door to keep it open. The man turns around.
“Who are you here to see?” he asks.
“Renee Pape,” I respond without a beat.
“Well then buzz her,” he says. “We’re not allowed to let anyone in the building.”
He looks at my hand and gently shuts the door.
So much for sneaking in to randomly haunt the halls in search of someone with the initials L. P.
“I can’t tell if it’s fall or spring,” Grandma says.
I look at her, then over at the basketball courts. The four players have taken a break in their game. The one who joined the group from the apartment complex is looking in my direction. When he sees me look up, he looks away.
“That’s the second time I’ve seen him looking at me, Lane.”
“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Grandma, I used to be a decent basketball player.”
“You must have been taller then.” She winks.
“I’m still plenty handsome.”
She smiles. She’s in there somewhere.
I look at the playground. “You know what they say about the third time.”
“It’s a charm,” Grandma says.
“The young fellow just glanced at us again.”
Chapter 18
We walk to the side of the court. Between games, the boys have scattered and sit along the chain-link fence. I approach the one who looked at me.
“You’re very fast,” I say.
“More quick than fast,” he responds, without looking up. Friendly. I’m guessing around twelve years old. He’s shorter than his friends, wearing blue mesh shorts long enough to touch the tops of his high-tops. His Golden State Warriors tank top reveals the underdeveloped shoulders of pre-adolescence.
One of his cohorts shouts in his direction: “If he’s an agent, give him my number.”
“The teacher gave us the afternoon off for Halloween,” he explains. Earnest.
“I used to play. I wasn’t very good,” I say.
“I used to be a teacher,” Grandma says.
We both turn and look at her.
“She plays too,” I say. “She has a wicked jump hook.”
The boy laughs.
“I’m Nathaniel, and this is Lane. My grandmother.”
One of his friends shouts in his direction. “Let’s go, Newton. Rubber match.”
“Hello, Newton,” I offer.
“It’s a nickname,” he says and he stands.
“I’m looking for someone,” I say.
“We’re looking for someone,” Grandma says.
“It’s…” I gamble. “Mr. Pederson.”
Newton’s taken a step away from us, but he keeps his cool. “Never heard of him,” he says.
“What about
