I’M SURE A MEMORY surfaced—our grandfather after he lost his farm, Aunt Denise. “It’s OK,” she said after a pause similar to the one that had preceded her additions to our letter to the vampire. “It is?” I asked. “Nana sometimes lets me,” she explained. “Really?” I was amazed. “Yes.” She revealed that Nana poured herself two fingers before viewing Dancing with the Stars and other network favorites, and that Nana included her in the ritual because drinking alone wasn’t healthy. It was quite the revelation. Mom never consumed anything other than a glass of wine when we were together, though I had done shots with Katy on more than one occasion. Unfortunately, I had also puked. And yet, if I was a once-or-twice derelict, Natalie allegedly had been getting loose with our fifty-two-year-old nana regularly for the last two years. Loose but not soused; Natalie explained the difference. Some sort of restraint went into it.
