Free All-Season Edie by Annabel Lyon Page A

sink.
    Mom feeds me two swollen spoonfuls of thick, sharp, sweet cough syrup, supposedly raspberry. More like mutant raspberries, I think, shaking my head to dispel the taste. More like raspberries from a tender clump in a quiet corner of a nuclear power plant that one day—or night, it would be at night, with only a janitor around as witness—grow to seven hundred times their normal size. They sprout arms and legs and faces and powers and personalities. They start wearing capes, and letters on their berry chests, and going on evil adventures before falling into giant vats of boiling cough mixture, all thanks to the effects of nuclear radiation. (I don’t know what nuclear radiation is, but I do watch cartoons, and the syrup does taste absolutely terrible without entirely losing touch with a certain recognizable berry-like flavour.) “Now take your pill,” Mom says.
    Pills are just plain mean. They stick in your throat and make you gag on their bitterness. They don’t have personalities.
    â€œHurry up, Edie,” Dex says bossily. “I have to get cards and presents for all my friends. I want to find something special for Grandpa. I have so much to do.” For a second she sounds just like Mom, sort of flustered and distracted and satisfied all at the same time. She speaks as though she isn’t really talking to me at all but rather to some invisible person, someone she’s showing off for. Who could that be? I remember the ancient gods and goddesses we’re learning about in social studies, how they can appear or disappear or turn into whatever they want. Maybe Dexter thinks some of them are listening, disguised as toasters and microwaves and yellow kitchen curtains with blue flowers. Typical Dexter, to imagine such amazing and powerful beings would be interested in her stinky little shopping trip.
    â€œHave you taken that pill yet?” Mom asks.
    â€œAlmost.” Dusty pours around the corner and starts mewing in front of his empty food bowl. I jump up. The ancient Egyptians worshipped cats. I find the ancient Egyptians very sympathetic.
    â€œAh!” Mom says sharply, pointing at my pill. I clap it into my mouth, wince, swallow and gulp at my water. Then I take a scoop of cat food from the bin and put it in Dusty’s bowl. I love feeding my cat. “Don’t pet him while he’s eating,” Mom says, although I don’t know why not. Dusty doesn’t mind, he just keeps eating. “Go brush your teeth and put your shoes on.”
    â€œI’m bored already,” I say. Dexter is waiting by the front door with her jacket on and her little purse strap looped across her chest. “How much money do I have?” I ask. “I want to get something special for Grandpa too.” I haven’t been allowed to visit Grandma and Grandpa since I got sick. I don’t like to think about the reason why: Grandpa is so weak that my cold might land him back in hospital. Those were Dad’s exact words, like he was trying to make me feel guilty.
    It’s getting harder to think about Grandpa without a little knot of hurt in my chest. Something is coming, I keep thinking, something not so good. At the same time, I can’t imagine anything changing. Grandpa will always be Grandpa, calling me Albert and letting me do stuff no one else does, like starting his car by turning the key while he presses the gas, or tasting his drink.
    â€œNow do you see why little girls don’t get beer?” he said after I spluttered it straight back out, but he said it nicely. When I asked him if letting me have a taste was a secret, he said, “No, no, no. You never have secrets from your mom and dad. If anyone will get in trouble, it will be Grandpa, not you.” He was right, too. Dad yelled at him, but he didn’t care. “Albert was curious, just like I was at her age” was all he said. “It’s good to be curious.”
    I wonder if maybe