Excerpt: The Many Understandings of Sabbie

I opened my grandmother's apartment door. I put down the groceries and called to her, "Grandma?"
I didn't hear an answer. She must not be up yet. I picked up the grocery bags and then put them into the kitchen. She said we'd go to the park today. I was looking forward to it. She always said strange things when we were out.
I went to knock on her door, but then I caught a smell. On some level I knew it before I opened my grandmother's door. My throat caught. I should have a thousand more emotions that weren't there. I felt empty. I should ask questions right now, but my heart didn't even change its rhythm.
I found my hand too weak to open the door. I put the note she'd left me, "I'm sorry, Sabbie," into my pocket. I used both hands to turn the handle praying and hoping what I knew to be true wasn't true at all.
But then it wasn't like my mom, aunt or uncle to understand her. I reached for my cellphone. I needed to call 911.
#
My first memory is of my grandmother sitting me on her lap and telling me a story off the top of her head. I remember thinking she looked kind of funny compared to Dad and me. Mom looked more like her, but only a Little. Mom had her eyes and the same hair color, but all of her facial features were different.
Sometimes Grandma would call mom in a language I couldn't understand and then my mom's frown would deepen.
This time was no different. She was holding me in her lap, her hair half black and half silver talking about a frog who met a tadpole in the forest and how the tadpole wanted to be like the frog. I was kicking my feet, watching her draw simple pictures of the event.
Mom paused at the door.
"Dinner."
Grandma answered, but it wasn't in a language I understood.
"Please speak in English, mom."
Grandma spoke one sentence to Mom. Mom seemed to understand. She crossed her arms and said, "Dinner will be downstairs if you want it."
I saw a sad tinge cross grandma's face, but it quickly disappeared behind a smile.
"Shall we go eat: I'll tell you the rest of the story after dinner."
We never got back to that story. Grandma always promised to finish it, but Mom would interrupt us before Grandma could start. I always wondered why Mom hated that story so much.