His face changed immediately, that particular flicker of irritation he gets whenever anyone in the family deviates from whatever script he’s written in his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then book her a seat.”
“There aren’t any left.”
The airline clerk, still standing there, still processing whatever she’d just witnessed, said quietly, “There are eleven available seats on the flight.”
My father’s jaw tightened. Aunt Monica stepped closer to me and lowered her voice, the tone you use when you want something to sound reasonable rather than actually be reasonable. “Your grandmother is tired. Take her home and meet us in Rome tomorrow.”
But she would not meet my eyes while she said it.
I picked up Grandma’s green suitcase and led her away from the counter, from my family, from a departures board that was about to send five people to Europe on a trip her money had entirely paid for. Behind us, nobody called her name.
