The Other Girl

"It's because she's living in that house alone," my mother explains.

"And she doesn't eat right. Day-old hamburgers," my grandmother adds.

"I didn't realize it was that bad," my grandfather mutters.

But she is in a more amiable mood than I have ever known her to be in. As we step into her house, she is smiling. There is a wiry strength in her hug that I do not recognize. "She taught me how to smile again," she begins, as if this girl is her angel, her savior. She wants us to meet her.

We sit and politely listen to her monologue of happy confusion. She speaks of a cat she saw the other day, and of church, and of my mother's childhood. "I love children. You know," giving a nod to my mother. "My grandchildren mean the world to me," as if introducing us to them. "You favor her," she breaks off, smiling at me with a distant fondness. "That's a good thing. A good thing..." My sister's eyes are pained.

Now she talks of my youngest sister singing at church. "Children love singing. You know that, baby" nodding at my mother. Then she says, "I sit right here all the time, I love to see her smile, and talk to her. I don't know why she doesn't talk back. Yes, I do know. She's a picture." She laughs. "I've got another in the back, on the dresser..." Her voice trails off.

"Has she had dinner yet?" And she points, one wavering and bony finger, at the picture whose frame is a halo in her eyes. The smiling picture who keeps her company, the picture she loves, the picture she is concerned for.

The picture is of me.