Arrive at in-law’s house with six-year old (Michael’s mom adopted her last year — we’ll call her Curly) just done with tennis lessons. See grandmother’s car in driveway.
Walk to door, ring bell. Ring bell again. And again.
Knock on door. Knock on door again. Then some more. The louder. Ask Curly if she could be sleeping. “Maybe, she said she wasn’t feeling well.”
Knock on door some more.
Yell at Curly to get out of the bushes where the ticks are.
Knock on door.
Go to car, retrieve cell phone. Call house, no answer. Call her cell. No answer. Remember spare house key is in Michael’s car, not mine.
Bang on door.
Walk around house to basement window (facing into her apartment.) Look through screen. See lights on, dog barking. Call her name.
“Grandma! Graaaandma! GRANDMA!!!”
Being to panic.
Bang on window. Ask dog, “Where’s Grandma?” in hopes of sudden Lassie abilities.
Send Curly to play on trampoline. Act as though everything is OK.
Bang on window. Has she fallen and can’t get up?
Call mother-in-law. Explain situation. Find out that she hasn’t been able to get a hold of grandmother for an hour.
Tell Curly to stay on trampoline and jump as high as she can. Walk across the street to neighbors in possession of spare key.
Ring doorbell. Contemplate finding Grandma unconscious. Wonder if I remember CPR. Panic.
Hear footsteps approaching door.
Stopping by the neighbors to chat.
And effectively giving me an aneurysm.
Inform her of panicked last few minutes and tell her I’m so happy she’s alive.
Because now I’m going to kill her.