“What secret rule could be keeping Nonna and Mamma, mother and daughter, from seeing each other? What was it that I didn’t know? Whenever I got back home, Mamma would interrogate me about Nonna Eia’s health. She bombarded me with questions, sometimes embarrassing ones. Like, ‘Did she have a strange smell? Are you sure she’s keeping clean?”
“She turned her back and put the water on to boil. But not before I got a glimpse of her lips tightening. An ugly grimace. My sugar-and-spice grandmother with such a nasty look. I feel guilty. But I couldn’t ask, Nanna, do you and Mamma hate each other? How could I say such a thing?”
“Right opposite the hull of the boat was Nonna Eia’s front door, made of wooden planks, once upon a time turquoise-blue. It was framed by great cluster of sprawling, clinging vines, as tangled as a jungle, that grew so densely over the drainpipes and along the walls of the house that they hid the upstairs windows, whose broken panes were held together by the strips of masking tape.”