Page 58 of The Broken Heart Playlist
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Lisset straightens in her seat. “Hey, Google,” she says in a loud voice, “tell me a joke.”
Google comes alive. “Why did the toilet paper jump off the building?” There’s a pause. “To quickly get to the bottom.”
Lisset laughs, along with my dad, a staunch fan of toilet humor. “See, GG?”
Grandma is still frowning, but I detect the hint of intrigue on her face. “Huh. Do something else.”
“Hey, Google,” Lisset instructs, “sing me a song.”
Google belts out a tune.
“Let me try,” Grandma interjects eagerly. She thinks for a moment. “Hey, Google, bark like a dog.”
A strange barking noise comes out of the machine. My mom tightens her lips and Lisset giggles.
I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t believe humiliation is what Lisset had in mind, Grandma.”
“Really?” she remarks, trying and failing for a look of innocence. “I thought we were having fun. I’m certainly having fun.”
I shake my head. The woman is incorrigible when it comes to Google.
“Try again, GG,” Lisset urges.
“All right,” Grandma agrees, sounding way too eager. With the widest smile I’ve ever seen on her, she says loudly, “Hey, Google, self-destruct.”
“Mom, what does Google mean when it says, ‘please head to the escape pods’?” Lisset asks on the drive home.
“It’s a joke, honey,” I tell her. “Google was pretending it was about to blow up.”
She thinks about this. “That’s pretty funny. Even GG thought so.”
Yes, she did. So much so that I thought I’d have to perform CPR on her at one point.
Through a yawn, Lisset asks, “Can we drop off the cards for Uncle Aaron and Auntie Tess?”
“Not tonight, Lis. I’m pretty tired.” And still a little raw and emotional after last night’s Monopoly game, which Aaron eventually won.
Lisset yawns again. “Okay.”
It’s been three days since Lisset’s talk with Gideon. I’ve attempted to introduce a few more books to her, but the more I push, the more she pulls away. The confusing part is that she’s not being difficult or lazy. She still excels in math and diligently completes the rest of her schoolwork. Oddly enough, she’ll also read a menu when we’re out at a restaurant. Yet it’s painfully clear she still holds onto a deep-seated aversion to reading. I feel the anxiety I’m always trying to keep in check resurface.
Saturday morning, I’m weeding the flower bed in my front garden when I spot Gideon returning from a morning walk with Uno. It’s a beautiful spring morning, the air crisp enough for me to wear leggings and a light sweater, but the March sun is promising a warm day. Lisset is taking advantage of the fact that it’s the weekend and sleeping in.
I straighten at Gideon’s approach, the trowel still in my hand. Uno is panting heavily, his tongue lolling out. I head to the tap and fill up a container I keep outside. I carry it over to Uno, who immediately starts lapping up the water.
“That’s kind of you,” Gideon says. “Thank you.” There’s a note in his voice I haven’t heard before.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing to Uno.”
“It’s not me being nice,” I warn him. “I simply don’t want your dog collapsing on my lawn.”
He tips his head back and laughs, a deep, unselfconscious laugh that echoes down the street. I find myself admiring the strong, tanned column of his throat before I catch myself and look away.
“What about Uno’s owner?” Gideon asks, his smile lingering. “He’s feeling in need of a drink.”
