LOVE, virtually

THE FINAL INSTALMENT OF A NEW SHORT STORY

- KIWI NOVELIST BRONWYN SELL

I stole the grandbaby from her cot 10 minutes after my daughter left – just long enough that I could be sure she wouldn’t circle back to grab some forgotten item. Bad, bad babysitter.

There were precious few opportunities in life to lie on a sofa with a baby sleeping on your chest, and I would take them where I could. Next week this smooshed-up sleeping face would be slightly different, and the week after that, different again, and so on until she was 60-something and her late mother haunted the bathroom mirror, peering out at her while she peered in. In my memory, it seemed like my girls had been babies for a day.

The grandbaby sucked on her lips. (I wasn’t yet calling her by her name. Adeline was a name a child had to grow into. And I liked “grandbaby”. It was what all the cool grandparents were saying.) I adjusted my hold. My arms would be sore tomorrow, but this was worth every ache.

Everyone warned you how life zipped by. At some point I’d taken to warning my own girls – yes, it turned out I was that age – but they would just look back at me with a mixture of pity and impatience. By the time you truly understood, it was already too late.

I tsked. Too late? What would a 95-year-old have to say about that? (And would I listen?)

“Life is short,” I whispered to the grandbaby, literally a captive audience. “Take your chances while you can.”

Cars passed along the road outside. Crickets sang. Dreams crossed the grandbaby’s face in twitches and snuffles and sighs. When the ache got too much, I risked changing position, which put my phone in my direct line of sight. The phone in which James Brewer lived. Did I dare release him, like a genie? What would I even wish for?