Page 7 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“He’s not therealHarry Styles,” says the little girl, deadpan. Her hair is like a wilder version of her mom’s, and she’s holding an old-school Speak & Spell.
“Right,” I say. “The real one’s British.”
Then, gray-haired and jaunty, a lady about my mom’s age strides out from the kitchen. “You must be Doris’s son. Hi, Henry, I’m Maryellen. Thanks for coming over.”
Grace is holding her phone up. “Mom, what’s the deal with the Wi-Fi? It was fine five minutes ago, now it’s out.”
“I know. Frustrating, right? I figured Henry could take a look. No sense getting those buffoons from Comcast involved.”
Grace looks at me and shakes her head again as the sound of a crowd cheering bursts in from the other room. “Hey, Dad, can you turn that up a little? Not all the neighbors can hear it yet!”
“Ha ha” comes a friendly, disembodied voice.
“Would you like some water, Henry?” asks Maryellen. “Maybe some eggnog? It’s homemade. First batch of the season.”
I tell her thanks, but no. I have no idea what to do next, like I’ve stumbled into an improv class. Finally, Grace points over hershoulder with her thumb. “Come on, Henry. Let’s figure out this Wi-Fi drama.”
Not counting the walk downthe hallway to a drafty little home office, it takes Grace and me about five seconds to diagnose the problem. Again, I’m not an IT guy, but the modem couldn’t be more obviously unplugged. “I bet that’s it,” I say, pointing at the cord curled up on the carpet.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Grace drops to a knee and plugs the thing back in. When she stands, I take a quick step back because I’m close enough to smell her shampoo—flowers and vanilla.
“Sorry about this,” she says. “My mom, she’s…well, your mom, too, I guess. Seems like they were in on this together.”
“What do you mean?”
Grace laughs like I’m missing something. She’s barefoot, I notice. I look down at my scuffed chukkas and hope this isn’t a no-shoes house.
“Your wife died,” she says. “Right?”
It’s a startling thing to hear, especially from a stranger, because I’m still not used to this being a fact that one can simply state. The room briefly spins, which happens to me sometimes when I think of Brynn.
“My husband died, too.”
“Oh.”
“Earlier today, actually,” she says. “He was watching the Ravens game, then, just before halftime…”
I’m still wobbly, but she can’t possibly be serious. “What?”
“I’m kidding, Henry. Back in January.”
The modem blinks and hums a few feet away—a small robot coming back to life—and all I can think to say is “Shit.”
“Cancer,” she says. “A few days before your wife’s…”
Grace doesn’t say “plane crash.” No one ever does. Sometimes they say “accident,” which sounds wrong but is technically true, or “incident,” which is one hell of an understatement. Mostly they trail off, like Grace just did. My bearings are back, so I tell her that I’m sorry for her loss, which feels weird to say instead of hear.
“Ditto,” she says. “Happy holidays, huh?”
“Can you believe it’s almost Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I absolutely can’t. Anyway. Not sure if you’ve picked up on this yet, but we’ve been mommed.”
“Mommed?”
Grace folds her arms and waits for me to catch up. When I finally do I feel like an idiot. “My mom made me comb my hair before I came over here,” I say.
“Yeah?” says Grace. “Earlier, mine told me I looked like the checkout girl at an auto parts store.”
