Page 15 of Wrong Number, Right Unicorn

“We can keep an eye on her from here.”

Errol slumped into an armchair, and I sat beside him on the couch. There was a lot of banging and clanging from the kitchen, but Grams was getting an old battered oven dish out of a cupboard.

“I bet she’s made this meal hundreds of times.”

He nodded, his head turned toward his grandmother.

“I hope you’re hungry.” There was a pause as the over door slammed. “Does your little friend like green beans?”

It’d been a while since anyone had called me that—if ever—but I stood in the doorway and said I did. Again, I offered to help, but Grams said Errol and I could wash up.

That might take a while because the sink was rapidly filling with dirty dishes.

“Grams, how about I wash as we go and Errol can dry.” There was no dishwasher, but if she agreed, it would get us both in the room with her.

“All right.” Grams was busy preparing seasoning for the chicken, and for a moment, she gasped before running into what might have been a bedroom.

“Quick, let’s season the bird.” There was a bowl of limes on the table and a bulb of garlic on the countertop. I shoved them inside the bird and seasoned the skin.

Popping it in the oven, I filled a pot with water to parboil the potatoes. They’d cook quicker in the oven later, rather than putting them in raw.

“Now, where was I?” Grams flapped her hands and glanced around the kitchen.

“You’re so organized, Grams.” Errol kissed her. The chicken’s cooking and so are the potatoes. Why don’t you sit for a while, take a load off your feet, and we’ll keep an eye on the food.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Errol got Grams squared away watching TV, and he and I prepped the green beans.

“What are you doing?” He giggled as I put the lid on the saucepan with the potatoes and shook it and my butt around the room.

“It roughens the edges of the potatoes, so when we roast them, the edges will brown and be nice and crispy.”

Errol bopped around after me, and we laughed before we got the potatoes in the oven. I wondered if he got much of a chance to laugh these days.

The chicken was resting, the potatoes almost done, and the beans had been stir-fried with garlic when Grams walked in.

“I don’t know how you do it, Grams. The dinner smells amazing.”

“I can make this meal with my eyes closed.” She inspected the chicken, and I hoped it met her approval.

“Why don’t you sit?” Errol pulled out a chair at the table that he’d laid with rolls, plates, cutlery, napkins, and a vase of flowers he’d picked from the garden.

“Cooking is hungry work.” Grams pulled apart a roll and stuffed half in her mouth.

I served up the food, and we sat down with her. I hoped she wouldn’t notice our portions were very small.

“This is delicious. I surprise myself sometimes.” Grams tucked into her meal.

I ate more than I thought I would, but we had a lively conversation about the neighbor’s dog that kept digging a hole under the fence and coming into Grams’s garden.

And after we’d eaten, Grams took out old photo albums and pointed out Errol at Halloween, looking as cute as a button in a little devil’s costume, his first day of school, blowing out birthday candles, with his dog who lived to eighteen, and his college graduation day. Grams was in all the pics with him. She’d been a huge part of his life.

Grams yawned, and Errol suggested she get ready for bed. I washed up, and Errol stored all the leftovers in the fridge.

“Thank you so much. The meal was amazing. You can come and cook for us any time.”

I might take him up on the offer.

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