Free The Visibles by Sara Shepard Page A

didn’t even know it. Like she even liked the war! I know for a fact she wanted to be back here, ironing things and baking potpies. She’s even having the military come out and fold the flag and shoot off guns.”
    Steven brightened. “Cool.”
    “Mom?” My father scratched his chin. “Seriously?”
    “You would’ve known this if you visited.” Stella hobbled up the porch steps. “She probably would’ve told you. She never told me shit like that.”
    My father looked down, not saying anything.
    Stella removed her glasses. Her eyes were brown, large, and a little crossed. “We should go over to the home probably, huh?”
    “We can’t go there until three,” Samantha barked. She and Stella had a funny way of talking; some of their vowels are very clipped and thin. We can’t go thirr until three. “Don’t you remember what that dickwad at the funeral home said?”
    Stella looked delighted and punched Samantha softly on the arm. “Dickwad! Now, that is an interesting mental picture. Leon is a dickwad, isn’t he?”
    You’ll remember Stella, my father told me on the drive here. She’s a spitfire. But I didn’t remember her. I didn’t remember any of this. We used to go to my mother’s family’s house for holidays. My maternal grandmother lived just two hours from Brooklyn, in a town in Pennsylvania called Bryn Mawr. Her yard was fenced and she had one dog—a bichon frise. When she died, there was a closed casket and a small, tasteful service. We had a brunch afterward, and some great-uncle made me a Shirley Temple with two maraschino cherries. We didn’t have to do anything like go see the body .
    Stella put her arm around Steven’s shoulders. “You’ll love it here. It’s such a nice little vacation for you. Did your father tell you about the crick? And the river. They have these new things, they’re like water scooters. They’re called…oh, what are they called…”
    “Jet Skis,” Samantha sighed.
    “Jet Skis!” Stella crowed, holding up one finger in eureka!
    “Jet Skis aren’t new,” I said.
    “A Jet Ski chopped off Mason’s leg last week,” Samantha said.
    “It did not. ” Stella shot her a look.
    “How do you know?”
    “It’s all right,” Steven said. “I’m not really into Jet Skis, anyway.”
    “Now, have you ever been on one?” Stella asked.
    “Yeah,” Steven said.
    “No, you haven’t.” Stella put her hands on her hips. “These are completely cutting-edge. You’re probably thinking of a canoe.”

five
    T he front door led into a sitting room with two scratchy plaid couches, a worn circular rug, a dingy fireplace, and a very old television in the corner. On the mantel was a large gold trophy in the shape of a horseshoe. There were gilt-framed, oily paintings on the walls, all of either hunting scenes—dogs majestically pointing at foxes, ruddy men on horseback, a deer standing dumbfounded in a clearing—or of Frank Sinatra. Frank singing, Frank grinning, Frank with his Rat Pack.
    “A sight for sore eyes, huh?” Stella sighed, as if the room were beautiful.
    “Looks good,” my father answered quietly.
    I passed into the dining room. There was a painting of Frank on navy blue velvet. He was made up to look like a saint, a Mento-shaped halo around his head.
    On the table sat a bunch of framed photographs, a little shrine to my grandmother. I leaned down and examined the pictures on the dining table. The first was a black-and-white snapshot of her in a nurse’s uniform, standing at the edge of a cot. Chicken scratch at the bottom of the picture said (I think), Ruth, Paris, 1944.
    Next was a soft, hand-colored photo. She looked about ten years older, with blond, neat, bunchy hair, very white skin, no wrinkles. After that was a picture of her with her hands on my father’s shoulders. My father, maybe a bit older than me, stood beside her, although I didn’tthink he intended to be in the picture. He stared off into space, his whole face shattered and