It smelled. It smelled like my dad’s dirty socks mixed in with a fresh, new smell — like Ava’s little brother’s room with all those plastic toys and fresh laundry and rash creams.

I thought I was going to puke.

And I smiled smugly when I looked over at Audrey and saw her nose twisted, hand held to her mouth.

I’d bet on her puking before I did.

Grandma’s room was in the back of a long hallway on the first floor. Mom said that the nursing home had been converted from an old farmhouse, and I liked thinking that a family had once lived here, wondered, briefly, where they had gone. Behind us we could hear pots banging in the kitchen, but even the smell of a turkey dinner couldn’t mask the stench.

“Mom?’

“Anna, don’t you dare, so help me.”

I shut my mouth.

She sighed next to me and I glanced over. For a second, I barely recognized her. Her eyes seemed darker, her lips set in a grim line, and for the first time, I noticed that wrinkles creased her forehead. I suddenly wanted to take her hand or give her a hug or tell her I was glad I came, but Audrey elbowed me to point out a woman wearing no pants and when I looked back, Mom was there again, glaring at us, forcing us to stifle our giggles.

The door at the end of the hall was open, and I slowed my steps, letting Mom and Audrey pass me as I watched from the doorway. Her room was painted white with thick orange and yellow patterned curtains pulled back to let in the sunlight. I recognized the housecoat draped across the edge of the bed, and pictures of me and Audrey were propped up on the dresser and nightstand in gold frames. A bag full of yarn and an unfinished blanket lay spilled beside the velvet swivel chair I used to play on, and I realized Dad must have brought it over from her house.

The room reminded me of her, but the woman in the chair, white hair and thin face, I barely recognized.

I poked Audrey as Mom greeted her with a hug. “She looks different,” I whispered.

“You haven’t seen her in awhile.”

“That’s ‘cause no one would let me.”

“And look who came to see you,” Mom motioned us over with a short nod and I watched as Audrey bent down to hug her, greeting her with a smile. I thought how much I suddenly didn’t feel like smiling anymore.

“Mary!”

“No, Mom, Mary’s not here now. That’s Audrey.”

My grandmother frowned, then waved me over, and I reached down to wrap my arms around her as I had so many times before, since I was small.

“And that’s Anna. Do you remember Anna?”

I pulled back and saw the smile on her face falter, her brow deepening, a question reflecting in her eyes. I turned to Mom, my chest tightening, but she shook her head and reached for my grandmother’s thin hand.

“How are you doing, Mom? I see you’re making a new blanket.”

Grandma reached beside her to pick up the material, holding it up proudly.

“Do you like it, Carol? I’m making it for you.”

“I’m Carol, Mom. That’s Anna, your granddaughter. Remember Annie?’ Mom adjusted the strap of her purse against her shoulder and sighed, “Alright. I need to go speak to the nurse.” She squeezed my Grandmother’s hand with a promise to be right back and left the room, Audrey following close behind.

I watched them go, wanting to call them back, to be with me, to be with her. I didn’t say a word.

I was in a room where my grandmother slept, though it wasn’t really her room, watching wrinkled, blue-veined fingers slowly wrap yarn around a metal needle, though those hands didn’t belong to her. They weren’t the hands I remembered — not the ones that rested on my back as I wobbled on my bike for the first time; not the ones that used to tuck the bedcovers around me and smooth the hair back from my forehead when we stayed for overnight visits. Not the ones that bandaged skinned knees and helped me tie my shoes so that I wouldn’t trip on the laces again.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my — Audrey’s — old sneakers. I wondered if that’s what it was like, being here. I wondered if everything felt like a hand-me-down — so familiar, but so out of place, not really belonging to her anymore — not the clothes in the drawers or the pictures in their frames. Like these things belonged to another person, someone different, someone she couldn’t remember and that I no longer knew.

Suddenly I wanted my old shoes back, didn’t want these replacements. I wanted my shoes — the ones that had walked with me through school hallways and down neighborhood streets and beside muddy creeks. I wanted every scruff and stain because at least I would remember how each one got there, at least I could recognize them, at least I would know they were really mine.

“I really miss you, Grandma.”

She lifted her head and relaxed her hands in her lap, setting down her knitting slowly, gently, both movements I always associated with her.

“I miss you, too.”

I swallowed back the lump rising in the back of my throat. “Really?”

She nodded, smiled, and suddenly she was the grandma I knew again, and I thought, if only Mom were here right now, maybe then she could come home.

“Have you seen my mother?”

I froze, my hand falling to rest on the bed frame, my eyes fixed on her face as she looked towards the door. I felt that lump rise again as I shook my head.

“No, Grandma,” I answered quietly. “Your mother’s not here.”

I stood and crossed the space between us, her puzzled expression an image pressed into my mind as I wrapped my arms around her frail body, my nose pressed against her shoulder. She smelled of nothing but her and I thought that’s how it should be. No peppermint, no lilac. Just her. Just as I remembered.

“I love you, Grandma.”

And I settled my face against the white knit cardigan she always wore, my cheek caressing the soft material. For a moment, I wondered if I would hear those words echoed back, or if they would be just another hollow memory, meant for a person I never knew.