She asked me about your glasses.
“Use the old pair.”
“They’re too weak.”
She’d rolled her eyes. “Just wear your old pair. You can see fine in those.”
I remembered hesitating.
Then I remembered putting them on.
I can’t find my driving glasses.
After that, all I remembered was a blurry road sign, a horn, and metal.
For the first time, I wondered whether the worst mistake I’d made that morning had really been mine.
The crash dissolved, and I was back in the hospital room.
“Walter, what did she ask you?”
I remembered only a blurry road sign, a horn, and metal.
He frowned, concentrating. “She said, ‘Does your grandma always drive in those old glasses?’”
“When?”
“A few days before the accident.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know it mattered.”
Neither did I. Until now.
Does your grandma always drive in those old glasses?
The next day, I asked the hospital social worker, “Has Lisa tried to get custody of Walter?”
“She’s asked about temporary guardianship.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“She has consulted about it,” the woman explained carefully. “Your medical condition raised questions about Walter’s immediate care.”
I didn’t know it mattered.
“What questions?”
“Whether you would be physically capable of resuming full responsibility.”
“Because of the crash?”
“Among other things.”
“My eyesight.”
She’s asked about temporary guardianship.
She paused. “That was mentioned.”
Of course it was.
When Walter came back that afternoon, I asked, “Did you see Aunt Lisa near my glasses that morning?”
He frowned. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
My eyesight.
“She was near your purse. I think she had something in her hand.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really watching.”
It wasn’t proof. But it was enough to make me wonder.
So I waited until I was discharged.
I think she had something in her hand.
Lisa offered to drive me home.
I declined and called a cab.
At home, Walter helped me search one last time. “You once put your phone in the freezer.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
