The house is too big for an old woman and a little girl. The furnace is older than I am. The roof leaks. There’s a blue plastic bucket in the corner of Ellie’s bedroom that catches the drips when it rains. She named the bucket Gerald. When it rains at night, she lies in bed and counts the drips. “Gerald’s thirsty tonight, Grandma.”
I live on Hank’s Social Security and a small pension from my thirty years as a school secretary. It isn’t much. It was enough for two old people. It isn’t enough for an old woman and a growing girl.
Some months, I have to choose between filling my prescriptions and buying Ellie new shoes.
I always buy the shoes.
I cut my heart pills in half to make them last. Dr. Patel would yell at me if she knew. She doesn’t know.
