As if we don’t already have a full house––Tanya, her mother Laura, Grace, me, and Habibi, our dog––Grace announces, “I want a turtle.”
I look across the living room at her, grinning her post-orthodontia smile, curled up in an easy chair by the fire, her red hair in a top-knot at the tiptop of her head. Tall and thin, she wears a baggy 2X gray sweatshirt over leggings.
“Do your research,” I say.
She and Tanya get on their devices and talk turtles for an hour while I read the news.
Turns out many turtles live forever––40-50 years!
“I’m not taking care of it,” I say. “What will you do this summer when you’re traveling around?”
“I’ll take it with me, of course.” She glances at me sideways, trying to suss out my reaction.
When we’re upstairs ready for bed, she comes to our bedroom door.
“I really want a turtle,” she says. “I’ve always wanted one, but my father said no over and over. I’m lonely. If I don’t get it, I might downward spiral,” she says, laughing the whole time. “I needa friend.”
I know I’m being manipulated. And I know for a fact that she has approximately a zillion friends, all over the country, all of whom adore her, all of whom she talks to and texts throughout the day and night. Still, I get it. They aren’t here, now, present, and she lives with what can only be described as three old ladies. In our defense, I’d say we’re hip old ladies, fun and funny.
“What will you call him?” I ask the next morning. By now, I know we want a “he” because a “he” will be smaller.
“Frisbo,” I think, “but I have to wait until we meet to be sure. I’m looking for the proper carrying case so he can go on walks with me. And on my outings.” Grace goes to a spot in the Berkeley hills every night at sunset and shoots a photo as the sun dips over the horizon. Then she drives around and chats with friends in North Carolina. Bad for gas mileage. Good for her soul during the pandemic.
Grace decides she wants a Baby Eastern Mud Turtle, but she will have to order him and have him shipped.
“No way!” I say. “No turtle by mail! That’s cruel. Order one from the pet store.
“Martina,” she says, looking at me like I’m out of my mind. “How do you think the pet store will get it?”
As if I still have the power to say no, I say, “I’ll research this and let you know tomorrow what we think.”
Of course, it is impossible to say no.
Last night Grace purchased all her turtle-world supplies: fake rubber rocks with a pool for water to splash in, a castle to hide in, turquoise pebbles for the ground, and turtle food that reportedly has veggies and insects in it.
Frisbo will arrive by mail tomorrow.