The flickering glow of the TV lit the living room like a scene from Poltergeist as I skulked through the front door of my Grams’ house. It smelled like gingerbread.
My Grams’ caretaker, a woman named Linda, who looked like one of those psychic fortune tellers at a circus—buffoon red hair, Eddie Munster glasses, and cheap metal bracelets from the theater prop shop—rushed at me as if she wanted to hug me, arms gesturing for me to come inside, eyes wide as sand dollars. She was a spooky, flamboyant woman, but harmless. She wore a multicolored satin nightgown that reminded me of a Christmas tree I had accidentally set on fire a few holidays ago.
A long, sordid story I’d rehash another time. Now, I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
Linda waved at me, her bracelets clanking in droves like the so
