Many years ago when Nanny was a spry 75-year-old, my sister and I took her to the mall. Her eyesight was bad so she was no longer driving, and getting around was difficult for her. She could manage when she wanted to —every Sunday, she walked several blocks to the metro station in Miami Beach, then took a train and a bus to Miami, then walked several more blocks to her church. But going to the mall was definitely a treat, and this mall even more so. It was four levels of excellent shopping, but hard to get to and hard to navigate.

My sister and I had a nice day planned for her. Lunch, then shopping, then the movies. A new Heath Ledger movie was playing, Brokeback Mountain. She loves her some Richard Gere, but Heath Ledger was running a close second (she’d seen 10 Things I Hate About You about, well, ten times). And Jake Gyllenhaal, being fairly easy on the eyes, certainly sweetened the deal. We were browsing in Ann Taylor Loft, killing time before the movie started, when she asked what it was about.

“It’s about two cowboys who are herding sheep on top of a mountain for the summer and they fall in love,” I said.

She didn’t ask anything else, but it was somewhere in the accessories department that we realized Nanny was missing. She’s about 4’11” so it’s not unusual to lose her from time to time when we’re shopping (I’m pretty sure she waits until I’m not looking and then hides behind a clothes rack so she can shake me). We looked in the petite section, the women’s section, and the shoe section, but no Nanny. We looked in the neighboring stores and the bathroom, but no Nanny. We looked in the ice cream shop, the coffee shop, and the pet shop, but no Nanny. We looked in the parking lot — all four levels. No Nanny. And in between, we called her cell phone. No answer.

I could not imagine what had happened to her. Well, actually, I could. She could have been kidnapped (this was, after all, Miami). She doesn’t see so well, she could have fallen over a railing. She could have wandered out to the parking lot looking for us and gotten hit by a car. She could have… and then the phone rang. It was Nanny.

“Where the HELL are you!” was my first question. “And how did you POSSIBLY get there?” was my second.

She was calm, unperturbed. “I’m on the train.”

“What? How did you get to the train? We’re not anywhere near the train! And WHY are you on the train?”

“I walked,” she said. “I’m going back home to feed my dogs.”

“But…but…Jake Gyllenhaal! Heath! Heath!” I sputtered.

“Oh honey, I’m not going to see that movie,” she said. “I ran a boarding house in the fifties, I’ve seen enough of that sort of thing to last me a lifetime.”