Friday, October 24, 1997
Dear Nova,
Do you remember when Gram was in the hospital, and we sat around in that waiting room with the sad-looking striped beige wallpaper for hours? The chairs felt like t*****e devices, and everything smelled like rubber and disinfectant. We were so worried we refused to leave, and the nurses would take turns coming over to suggest we consider going home for at least a warm meal and a shower. Remember how I used to chew my dry cuticles so badly they bled? I thought I’d broken that habit years ago, but my thumbs once again look like Prosciutto.
The last few days have been an angst-ridden waiting game. Asher was still missing, and Zisa was mostly out of the loft until late into the evenings—I wondered if she was avoiding me. Either way, their absences left me
