Page 8 of Ladybirds

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Oma says, coming from around the corner with a dishtowel wiping at her hands. She leans against the wall, her smile soft and mysterious. “He’s yours after all.”

Sara’s hand stills, head snapping up. “What?”

“You heard me. He’s yours.”

She swallows, reality effectively crushing the hope rising in her chest. “I can’t have pets in the dorm.”

“No,” Oma hums, eyes bright, “but you can at your apartment.”

Shaking her head, Sara scratches the cat behind its ears and earns a full throated purr. The sound fills her with bittersweet longing. “But I can’t afford it without—” She doesn’t say his name. She can’t. Speaking it is bound to send another fissure through her already fragile heart. “I can’t afford it.”

Oma tucks the dish towel in her apron, before taking a seat on the couch. “There’s an envelope in the kitchen—one of those big yellow ones on top of this little guy’s cat carrier. Be a dear and grab it for me?”

Sara eyes her suspiciously, but does as she’s asked. There’s an envelope alright: big, mustard yellow, and a lot more official looking than it has any right to be. She picks it up carefully, curiosity stirring despite her apprehension. When she brings it to the living room, Oma waves her hand pointedly. “Well, go on. Open it.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice—the curiosity is as terrible as the apprehension—but when she pulls the papers from their Manila prison, it still takes her several moments to understand what she’s seeing. “Oma, what—”

“It’s already paid for,” she says firmly; no room for arguments. “So there’s no talking me out of it.” Her expression softens, so tender and full of love and understanding that it just about breaks Sara’s heart all over again. “You have been through enough, sweet girl.”

In her hand is a receipt, an itemized bill proving her apartment is paid in full for the next year. Sara’s lower lip trembles, a tear slipping past her defenses. She brushes it away with the heel of her hand before it can fall. “Thank you,” she breathes, voice wobbling treacherously. “But can you really afford—”

Oma stops her with a look. Money isn’t something they ever talk about; it’s her grandmother’s firm belief that talk of finances belong far, far away from the dining table and even then, only between those paying the bills. Anything else is rude. “If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. And that’s all I’ll be saying on the matter.”

Sara nods, sniffing loudly and wiping away another stray tear. She’s speechless; there are no words that would encompass the depth of her gratitude. Overwhelmed, she sits on the couch beside her grandmother and wraps her arms around her aging shoulders.

Oma pats her hand; places a kiss on her forehead. “There are good things on the horizon for you, my dear. Good, wonderful things.” She pulls away enough to hold her granddaughter’s gaze, paper thin palm cupping her smooth cheek. “There always is after a big storm, but you need to have faith that your rainbow will come or else you’ll miss it.” Her expression softens, fingers brushing a lock of hair from Sara’s forehead. “Do you understand?”

Her throat is packed with gravel. She can feel it rattling around each syllable she forces past her lips. “I understand.”

The cat chirps at her from the ground, demanding attention, and Sara gives a watery laugh. “He’s really mine?”

Oma chuckles, patting her knee. “He’s really yours. I’m too old to be cleaning up cat shit.”

Sara coughs on a surprised laugh. She’s probably only heard her grandmother curse a handful of times, and each incident was more accidental than intentional. “Oma!”

She winks, flashing her signature blue eyeshadow. “Betty is a terrible influence. You know, last week she brought whiskey to our poker night?”

Sara smiles, leaning down to scratch the cat’s ears. “Whiskey, huh? Was it good?”

“It was a great time until the next morning.”

They both laugh, and for a small, immeasurable moment, Sara feels at peace. Everything in her world is far from right, but here in the warm glow of her grandmother’s living room and her new roommate purring at her ankles, she can see a glimmer of hope.

Sara names him Ansel. It’s fitting, what with his grayscale coat and her penchant for photography. Sara likes to think Mr. Adams would approve.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sara hates moving.

The packing, the coordinating enough help to transport everything. All of it. Now, she’s staring at her small apartment, the living area a maze of half filled boxes, and finds herself exhausted all over again.

Beside her, Jen reties her ponytail, dark hair still swaying well past her shoulders when she’s done. Setting her hands on her hips, she eyes the boxes warily. “You sure you don’t want help unpacking?”

Sara sighs, running a hand through her hair—flinching at the amount of sweat beading on her scalp. It’s hot—muggy in ways that make her want to just curl up on the floor and lay there, but she knows she’ll probably hate herself later if she turns down the help. Classes don’t start for another two months, but she knows Jen has her hands full with wedding planning—particularly since her mother and her have been butting heads on everything from the color of the invites to the dates. Jen handles it in stride, but Sara suspects Mrs. Foster’s real problem is with having a black man for the groom.

“Yeah,” Sara says, dread dripping from the word. “Ok.”

“Well, don’t sound so excited about it,” Jen teases, bumping her shoulder playfully. “You ready to introduce Mr. Man to his new place?”

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