I talked to my grandmother Wednesday.
She told me that Emma had cried for me at bedtime. And no one called.
“Everything is fine now,” my grandma assured me. “She’s fine.”
Except, she is not.
My grandma told me she whispers when she speaks. “I can hardly hear her she talks so low!”
Emma does not whisper. Not at home. Not with me. Emma is quiet when she is unsure. Or scared. Or worried.
Or wondering where the hell her mommy is.
Hearing someone describe her as “fine” when she is so clearly not damn near killed me. I know my grandma loves her great-granddaughter. She means well.
But she doesn’t know her.
Not like I do.
She doesn’t know that Emma won’t talk to me on the phone because she hates the phone.
She doesn’t know that the disembodied voice confuses her and makes her reach out for what she can see.
She doesn’t know that we sing at night, and that stops the tears.
She doesn’t know about You Are My Sunshine or “the Mickey Mouse song”.
No one knows.
But I know. I can tell. I can feel it from here.
She is not fine.