Page 11 of The Broken Heart Playlist
“Hey, Google—” Grandma begins.
“Hmm, something went wrong,” Google interrupts. “Try again in a few seconds.”
In exasperation, my mother shoves her face right up to the device. “STOP!” she yells.
The silence is deafening. And we’re still in the dark.
“Let me try again,” Grandma insists. “Hey, Google, turn on the lights.”
The lights in the living room switch on, but the kitchen remains in shadowy darkness.
My mother heaves a resigned sigh, and I can feel the force of my grandmother’s indignation from here. I’m scouring my mind for something to say, but I’m coming up blank. Watching Grandma interact with Google is like watching one of those epic disaster movies, where you know there’ll be a massive earthquake, followed by a tsunami, and then you’re waiting for the meteorite to hit.
Tess is no help. She’s buried her face in Lisset’s hair, but I can still glimpse her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Hey Google, get a life,” Grandma snaps.
Google replies, “I found some photos for ‘Get it up.’”
On the heels of my gasp, Aaron quickly unplugs Google, then flips the kitchen switch so we’re bathed in light. “Looks like Google still has a few kinks that need to be ironed out,” he says, trying for diplomacy.
Grandma mutters something about how she’s more than willing to flatten Google’s kinks with an iron. Thankfully, though, she moves on quickly and joins us in preparing dinner. We eat at the dining room table, the conversation light and easy. Tess tells us about a new greeting card range she’s working on, Aaron updates us on his latest cybersecurity project, and Mom asks why I’m taking on more advertising shoots as opposed to editorial work (the money is better, especially when I’m living paycheck to paycheck).
I wait until Lisset and Grandma have disappeared into Grandma’s living room to watch one of the British period dramas they’re hooked on before I bring up what Lisset’s teacher said about her sudden aversion to reading.
Tess scrunches up her nose. “That doesn’t sound like Lisset.”
“I know.”
Sensing my unhappiness, she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. My sister might drive me to distraction at times, but she’s all about family and her loyalty is fierce and unshakeable. “This is probably just a phase,” she suggests. “Lisset will come out of it.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.” And the reassurance I needed to hear.
“You girls were such readers,” Mom says. “I was forever driving to the library because you finished your books so quickly.”
Mom’s right. It hits me like a punch to the gut. I forgot how much I loved escaping into a writer’s imagination, how I could spend hours lost in the pages of a book. When did I stop reading? And why did it stop mattering to me?
“Do you want me to talk to Lisset?” Tess asks, dragging me from my thoughts.
“I thought at first it might be a good idea, but now I’m thinking that’ll probably overwhelm her and just cause her to dig in her heels.”
Tess widens her eyes. “I can’t imagine where your daughter gets her stubbornness.”
“Maybe from the aunt she idolizes,” I fire back, but there’s no sting in my words. Between the two of us, Lisset didn’t stand much of a chance.
Lisset wanders into the kitchen, complaining that Grandma fell asleep on the couch and she can’t hear the TV over her snoring.
My mom gives me a questioning look, silently asking if she should pursue the subject with Lisset. After a brief hesitation, I nod my assent. Mom’s signature look, combined with her soft, steely tone, is like being injected with a truth serum. As children, Tess and I were helpless to resist and all sorts of uncomfortabletruths spilled out of our mouths. Normally, it has the same effect on Lisset. But this time, strangely enough, my daughter remains reticent even under my mom’s gentle interrogation.
I decide to leave her be for now.
“Can we go home, Mom?” she asks.
I kiss her forehead. “I’m going to help tidy up, then we’ll leave, okay?”
“Okay.”
“C’mon, kid,” Aaron says to Lisset, heading toward the living room. “Let’s see if you can beat me at checkers.”
