Page 111 of Letters From A Stalker

“Hey, Nanna.”

Her laugh comes through slightly rough, the familiar rasp catching at the back of her throat before she clears it. “Did I wake you, my sweet?”

I smile into the pillow and roll onto my side, tucking one hand beneath my cheek. “No, I woke up a while ago.”

“And now you’re just lying there, resting.” She says, sounding pleased with herself for knowing my weekend morning habits better than anyone.

“Exactly. What’s new with you?”

Nanna starts telling me about a television presenter whose haircut has apparently offended her on a deeply personal level. I have no idea who the woman is, but that doesn’t matter because Nanna has decided the hair is “obviously a wig,” because no one on TV has real hair. I’ve heard her say that so many times before but I listen to it again, anyway. I would listen to that voice read instruction manuals if she wanted me to. Over the last couple of years, the rasp has become more noticeable in the mornings, and she occasionally has to pause between sentences to clear her throat. Mom finds it irritating when she is already in a bad mood. I never have.

For most of my childhood, that voice meant safety before I even understood what safety was supposed to feel like. It meant toast cut diagonally because Nanna insisted it tasted better, homework spread across her kitchen table while she pretended not to know the answers so I could explain them to her, and being allowed to talk about a boy at school without the conversation turning into a warning about sex, betrayal or becoming like my father. With Nanna, I got to be little. Even now, some part of me still does.

Her story about the fake hair eventually runs out of momentum, and I hear the faint clink of ceramic before she speaks again. “So, what are you doing today?”

“Nothing worth reporting. Laundry, probably. I was thinking about cleaning the bathroom cabinet before some of the products in there qualify for museum status.”

“You work all week. Sit down.”

“I’m currently horizontal.”

“Good,” she says with immediate approval. “Stay that way.”

“I think eventually somebody will report me missing.”

“Tessa will find you.”

A laugh escapes me. “Tessa has no respect for locked doors, so that’s probably true.”

Nanna laughs too, but the sound breaks into a small cough afterward.

My smile fades slightly. “You okay?”

“I’m ninety-four, Julia. Everything I do has a sound effect now.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Her tone changes so subtly that another person might have missed it, the humor thinning as she takes a small breath before responding.

“Yes, I’m fine. My throat is just dry this morning.”

I sit up against the headboard. There is something beneath the answer. There usually is when she starts reassuring me before I have actually expressed concern.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Nanna.”

She sighs, and there is enough resignation in the sound that I already know whose name is coming next. “Your mother was in a particular mood this morning.”

Of course she was.

I push my hair away from my face and straighten a little more against the pillows. “What kind of mood?”

“The usual kind.” Nanna tries to make the answer casual, but I can hear the smile she is forcing into her voice. “Apparently my coffee cups have migrated to the wrong cupboard, and my voice is especially offensive today.”

My jaw tightens. “What did she say?”