Back in the hospital, I looked at Walter.
“Why did she want me back then?” Walter asked.
“I thought she was grieving.”
“And now?”
I glanced toward the door. “Now I’m not so sure.”
Maybe because admitting otherwise meant acknowledging things about my daughter I had spent years refusing to see.
Lying in that hospital bed, I began wondering whether I had misunderstood that old argument completely.
“Walter,” I whispered, “did Aunt Lisa say anything else?”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“There was something weird.”
My stomach tightened. “Tell me.”
“She asked me about your glasses.”
“My glasses?”
“Before the accident.”
“When?”
“The morning when it happened.”
Another memory surfaced.
Lisa had been standing in my kitchen.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“I’m late, and I can’t find my driving glasses.”
“Use the old pair.”
“They’re too weak.”
She’d rolled her eyes. “Just wear your old pair. You can see fine in those.”
I remembered hesitating.
