I answered honestly, although some questions required more thought than others.
I explained that I'd received traffic citations during my younger years but had never been involved in the criminal activity people sometimes associated with bikers.
I told her I could ride a horse badly.
And I admitted that vegetables appeared on my plate less often than they probably should.
She reported that answer to Evelyn immediately.
The following evening, my granddaughter asked whether I'd eaten broccoli.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the phone.
“Your grandma put you up to this?”
Rosie giggled.
“Maybe.”
For the first time in years, somebody cared whether I came home for dinner.
Not because they needed a favor.
Not because I owned a garage.
And not because I was president of anything.
Because I was Grandpa.
The calls changed me in ways I didn't notice immediately.
I started keeping a calendar.
Wrote down Rosie's school events.
Remembered the dates of her orthodontist appointments.
Learned the names of her two best friends, Emma and Sofia.
And discovered that she hated mushrooms but loved pineapple on pizza.
I didn't understand that last preference.
Neither did Evelyn.
But Rosie insisted pineapple belonged on every pizza.
One evening, she called while I was repairing a motorcycle.
I put the phone on speaker beside my toolbox.
“Grandpa?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“What was Mom like when she was my age?”
The question stopped me.
I set down the wrench.
For a moment, I stared toward the wall where an old photograph of Mara hung beside the garage clock.
Then I smiled.
“She was stubborn.”
Rosie giggled.
“Like Grandma says I am?”
“Exactly.”
“What else?”
I thought.
“She loved drawing.”
“I love drawing!”
“I know.”
“And she liked fixing things?”
I smiled.
“She liked watching me fix things.”
Rosie considered.
“Did she help?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What did she do?”
I laughed softly.
“Mostly told me when I was doing it wrong.”
Rosie burst out laughing.
Then she became quiet.
For a moment, I could hear Evelyn moving dishes in the background.
Rosie's voice returned.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes I forget what Mom's laugh sounded like.”
My chest tightened.
I sat down.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I answered.
“That's okay.”
She sounded upset.
“It doesn't feel okay.”
I took a breath.
“I know.”
For a moment, we were quiet.
Then I looked toward my phone.
“Rosie, would you like me to tell you stories about her?”
She sniffed.
“Yes.”
So I did.
I told her about the time Mara tried to bake cookies without reading the recipe and accidentally used salt instead of sugar.