She left before I could ask which local pharmacy required a five-day advance on a standard prescription.
The traffic on the bypass was backed up to the river bridge, a long line of brake lights reflecting off the wet asphalt. In the back seat of my sedan, Emma and Ethan were arguing over who got to keep the blue plastic shovel we had brought home from the park.
I turned the steering wheel to the right, taking the detour through the hilltop subdivision where the newer brick buildings stood.
“Look, Mom,” Ethan said, pointing out the side window. “Is that Camille’s place?”
We crawled past the gated entrance of the Oakridge Heights complex, where the manicured lawns were bordered by low stone walls. Camille’s second-floor balcony faced the sunset, decorated with neat cedar planter boxes and a pair of outdoor chairs that probably cost more than my weekly grocery bill. Camille had moved into the luxury complex three months ago, claiming she needed the security of a gated development for her consulting work.
“She has a big balcony,” Emma said, leaning against her seatbelt to get a better look. “Can we go see her?”
“Not tonight, sweetie,” I said, watching a silver sports car turn into the resident parking lot. “We have to get home and make dinner.”
“Why does Aunt Camille live there and Grandma lives in the old house?” Emma asked.
“Grandma likes her garden,” I said, though my mother had not touched a trowel in three years. “We will go visit Grandma Beatrice soon, I promise.”
“The one with the big porch?” Ethan asked.
“Yes,” I said, signaling to turn back onto the main road. “The one with the garden.”
As we cleared the intersection, my phone buzzed in the cup holder with a text from my father, containing only a single question mark.
