by Beck, Jamie
She begins to twist a section of her hair around her index finger until the tip turns white.
“They start tomorrow, right? At least you have an extra week of summer.” I flash a hopeful smile.
She tucks her chin and shoots me a pleading look. “Please stop begging me to be happy. Your ‘lemonade from lemons’ speeches don’t make me miss my friends and old school less. And I’ll still be the ‘weird girl’ from the city when school starts here.”
“Or the interesting, beautiful new girl in town.”
“I just asked you to stop,” she says.
“Sorry.” I grab the tin box between us. “Do me a huge favor for the next thirty minutes: pretend to like me and be sweet to Gram. This is a scary time for her, and maybe we can make it a little easier.”
As soon as those words slip past my lips, I brace for her to misread my comment as dismissive of her worries. She surprises me by not popping off with defensive remarks. “How much does she remember?”
“I’m not sure. She has good days and bad ones, but wanted to move out before she hurt herself or someone else.”
Always responsible. She taught me the value of doing the right thing at a young age. “Remember you aren’t the only one who pays the consequences of bad choices—everyone who loves you will feel pain when you suffer.” I’ll never forget the grave look on her face when she told me that—right after I’d singed all my eyelashes from pouring kerosene on hot charcoals—like it was the most important advice she would ever give me. It crosses my mind anytime I’m about to take a risk.
“So she’ll remember us?” Katy asks.
“She should.” Of course, it’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve spoken with her. I have no idea what today might bring.
We sign in at the security desk and then are asked to wait in the reception area until we can be taken to her room.
“It smells funny,” Katy whispers.
“Antiseptic,” I agree. Although relatively new construction, it’s all very generic—sand- and cream-colored paints, laminate flooring, cheap hollow doors and fixtures. Even so, it’s nicer than the facility Richard’s mother was in last year for a month of rehab following spinal surgery. One whiff of the putrid mush it served prompted me to bring her meals four days each week so she wouldn’t lose weight. Lauren doesn’t strike me as the overly attentive type, so his mother might be out of luck next time. I wonder if Richard will notice or care.
Shaking off that self-pity, I return to the present. Skylights brighten the reception area and keep the myriad potted plants alive. We sink onto the comfortable beige leather sofa. Katy kicks her feet a bit while half-heartedly leafing through a People magazine, reading gossip about celebrities I’ve never heard of.
I use the quiet moment to collect myself before facing Gram.
My summers in Potomac Point rush back. Grandpa, a chemistry teacher, had happily devoted his summers to taking me fishing and to drive-in movies. He and Gram indulged me with weekly visits to Dream Cream for banana splits. Most important, Gram had encouraged me to paint and draw, while Grandpa got me to read some of the classics, which we’d talk about while toasting marshmallows.
Gram also loved playing board games, baking cookies, and watching Wheel of Fortune. Honestly, sometimes I’d wished I could’ve lived here year-round because their house felt more like a home than my own after my mom was no longer there playing the piano, or giving me manicures, or putting fresh flowers around the house.
Looking back, I think my dad retreated into fixing things like the toaster or tinkering in his garage to avoid the quiet house, too, convinced he was doing his duty by keeping a roof over my head and food in my stomach. The fact that I look like my mom might’ve been a painful reminder, too, but I never asked.
Katy might feel smothered by my love and attention sometimes, but that has to beat her feeling overlooked.
“Anne Chase?” A stout nurse with flamboyant red hair has come to stand beside the sofa.
Hearing Richard’s surname rattles me for a second. The world doesn’t need two Mrs. Richard Chases. Changing my legal name back to Anne Sullivan should leapfrog to the top of my to-do list.
“Yes.”
“I’m Clara. I’ll take you to see your grandmother now.” She beckons Katy, who tosses the magazine back on the coffee table and stands, as do I.
“Thank you, Clara.” We follow her down the long hallway to the left.
Clara raps on the door before opening it.
“Miss Marie, you’ve got some visitors today,” Clara says as we enter Gram’s room—number 123, like her old street address—an end unit with corner windows and natural light. It’s basically a large studio space with a full-size bed, a private handicap-accessible bathroom, and a breakfast bar area with a coffee maker, mini fridge, and small microwave.
The fading needlepoint carpet that used to be in Gram’s bedroom plants a little ache in my heart. No matter how stoic a person, moving out of one’s home at eighty-eight must be disconcerting.
Clara partly closes the door on her way out of the room.
Gram is seated in Grandpa’s old lounge chair, which she brought here along with another moderately comfortable chair, both of which face a television placed in a small entertainment center. Above her bed is a watercolor of the bay I’d painted in 1997 that Gram had made me sign before she had it mounted and framed. I flatten my hand over my chest. Not terrible for a fourteen-year-old experimenting with wash techniques.
Gram looks up from the television as if we’re nonthreatening strangers. Wispy short white hair curls away from her face. Her misty eyes squeeze my heart.
“What’s wrong, Gram?” I cross the room to hug her, at which point the baby powder and hairspray scents steep me in nostalgia. Her bony frame might as well be a collection of toothpicks in my arms. I grasp her hands gently, fearful of hurting her tissue-thin skin. Thick shame about how long it’s been since my last visit wedges itself in my throat.
I snatch a tissue from the box beside her and hand it to her.
She waves it off. “Those won’t help.”
“What will?” I take a seat, still holding the tissue. Katy is frozen behind me, waiting for instructions, so I gesture for her to hang tight.
“Nothing.” Gram’s voice is harsh, like she’s mad at us because she’s confused yet forced to cover her uncertainty.
Her cognitive deficiencies first surfaced around her eightieth birthday, although she masked them as long as she could. Once she hit stage 6 (or middle dementia), the doctor suggested that she move to a facility for constant care and supervision. He also told us to brace for paranoia, delusions, and more pronounced memory loss.
“How are you today?” I try.
“Same as always.” She waves a hand. “Trapped here. Punished again.”
“This isn’t a punishment. You wanted to be someplace safe.” At least she didn’t fight her doctor or my dad.
“Don’t get cute, Lonna.” There’s no mistaking that resentful tone. “You think you’re better than me, but you were just lucky that you never wanted anything of your own.”
Lonna is dead, so she can’t illuminate this conversation. But I’m stunned, having had no idea there’d been animosity between them.
“I’m not your sister, Gram. It’s me, Annie,” I say, hoping to spark some recognition. “Bobby’s daughter.”
No one else calls my father by that name. Robert Sullivan, a civil engineer for the city of Baltimore. A taciturn man who probably would not answer to “Bobby” these days.
Dozens of angry wrinkles smooth as she fights to make sense of my words.
“Do you recognize Katy?” I nod toward my daughter. “She’s growing up quickly.”
When I wave Katy over, she approaches timidly, but leans in to kiss Gram’s forehead. “Hi, Grammy.”
Seventy-two years and three generations separate these two women, yet a bit of Gram lives on in Katy. You can see it in the shape of their mouths and the slightly snub nose
.
“Annie . . .” A look of concern passes over Gram’s face as recognition dawns. “Did something happen to Bobby?”
“No. I bought your house and moved to town. Remember?” I search her eyes for some recognition. “Maybe once the renovations are complete, you can come over for lunch and see all the changes. Would you like that?”
She’s twining her fingers, rolling them over each other. “I don’t know.”
Katy moves to the shelf where Gram has set out two dozen framed photographs: Grandpa and my father, her parents and Lonna, me as a child. Others are landscape or object focused. She’d often had a camera handy, taking snapshots of strange things . . . like “For Rent” and “For Sale” signs, “Grand Opening” banners, new construction, and demolitions. It was almost as if she’d been intent on recording a history of changes in the town, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
When I’d first started drawing, she encouraged me to record the minute details. As I got older, she never much understood my interest in abstract impressionism. I’d tell her to enjoy the emotions at play, but she preferred realism, which is why she favored photography, I suppose.
“I like taking pictures, too,” Katy says, setting a photograph of Grandpa and me back in its spot. She spins around to face Gram. “Let’s take a selfie.”
“A selfie?” Gram shoots me a questioning glance.
Katy sidles beside Gram, sets the camera app to portrait mode, shoots her left arm out and upward—iPhone in hand—and says, “Smile.”
She snaps two quick photos, both of which portray Gram as stoic. Seeing my daughter smiling and making a connection with Gram increases my confidence that coming to Potomac Point will be good for us both. Gram reaches for the phone, shaking her head while turning it over. “That’s sharp . . .”
“I’ll print a copy and bring it next time for your shelf.” Katy shrugs.
Gram’s silver brows gather as she mutters, “You should try good old-fashioned film.”
Katy laughs, then pauses in thought. “Darkrooms look cool in old pictures, with that red light and those tongs. Maybe I’ll have access to one in my photography class.”
“That would be cool,” I say. “I’m sure this school will have some kind of art show to showcase students’ work. You should start thinking up an idea.”
“I actually have an idea of something I’ve been wanting to do anyway,” Katy says.
“What’s that?”
“A family tree collage.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that, like me at that age, she’d turn to artistic expression to work through her emotions. It also shouldn’t surprise me that she’s thinking about family at a time when hers is breaking apart. “How do you mean?”
“I’ll collect new and old photos of Dad, you, myself, Grammy, and other extended family—with your and Dad’s help. Then I’ll tear them into bits and assemble them to look like the bark of a tree trunk and branches. At the ends of each branch will be a whole photograph of each family member.”
“That’s interesting,” I say.
Katy nods. “I guess some of the old photos will be film based, but digital filters are pretty awesome, too, Grammy. Next time I come, I’ll bring my laptop and show you how to edit digital photographs. We could photoshop your face onto Beyoncé’s body if you want.” She laughs.
Gram blinks, bewildered. “I won’t be here.”
My lips part. “Where will you be?”
“New York. And don’t try to stop me this time.” Defiance seeps from her pores. “I have to find Billy’s parents and explain.”
Katy mouths, “Who’s Billy?”
I’m guessing he’s a character from a television drama that she’s confused with reality.
I play along with the hope of calming her, perhaps by transitioning to something mundane. “New York is exciting. Maybe I’ll go with you.”
She narrows her eyes, but I keep talking. “You did a nice job decorating your room, Gram. I always loved this carpet.” I then point at my old painting. “Thanks for bringing that with you, too. I might never have studied art if you hadn’t bought me my first set of paints and canvases.”
She’d done it to give me a quiet outlet for my grief. I quickly realized how art affects us all, much like how music—both in its creation and its effect—stirs something inside. Connects us through familiar emotions. Art is the single most important gift Gram ever gave me.
Yet although proud of my early successes in high school and college, she encouraged me to give it up when Katy showed signs of needing more attention. “Sometimes you have to make sacrifices, Annie. No one gets to have it all. Richard makes a lot of money, so you can afford to stay home and take care of your child.”
She hadn’t been wrong. I wanted to experience playing with Katy at the park and finger-painting together and taking her to soccer practice. My professional career hadn’t taken off like Richard’s had, so I immersed myself in two roles I was certain I could do well. Joke’s on me. Clearly, I failed as a wife. And Katy’s inability to cope with her frustrations suggests I’m failing as her mom, too.
Katy casts a glance at the framed painting. She’s probably judging it and probably deciding she might do it better, or at least differently. Professor Agate would be disappointed in my lack of daring now.
Gram blinks, her gaze darting from it to me. I can’t tell if she recognizes it, but she has not become more talkative in old age. This visit will require a lot of prompts.
Her room is a touch too warm, but I doubt she has any iced tea or soda in that tiny refrigerator. “How’s the food here?”
She clucks and waves her hand dismissively.
“Make me a list and next time I’ll bring some of your favorite things from town. I see you have a microwave, so perhaps you’d like soup.”
“I’m not hungry.” She shrugs.
“You need to eat.” I search my memory for her favorites. “Maybe chocolate pudding will stoke your appetite.”
She loved pudding back in the day, and I’d loved to scrape clumps of thickened leftovers from the edges of the pot and chew them one by one.
No one says much, but at least Gram isn’t as agitated or teary as when we’d arrived. An improvement. During a pause in conversation, I debate whether to bring up the recipe box.
Gram asks Katy, “What are you doing now?”
“Talking to my friends.” Katy flashes her phone screen our way.
“Am I going deaf, too?” Gram gestures toward Katy with two fingers. “You shouldn’t sit with your legs open. It’s unbecoming.”
Aha, Gram! There you are.
She uses the word “should” more than any other person I know. You should behave like a lady and not get so muddy. You shouldn’t question the rules. You shouldn’t slurp your soup. You should listen to your father, and don’t make waves. You should marry Richard now that you’re pregnant.
Katy’s jaw twitches, but she closes the gap between her knees. “Sorry.”
“Why aren’t you in school?” Gram asks her.
“It doesn’t start until next week.”
Gram turns toward me, head tilted. “What month is it?”
“Late August,” I reply.
She assesses Katy again. “You look like your father. Where’s he?”
I’m not surprised that Gram remembers Richard. He makes quite an impression, and he’d charmed Gram with his big dreams. She’d get a twinkle in her eye and smile at me. “Annie, this one will be an adventure. A good match.” She’d had it half-right.
“At work.” Katy turns stone-faced at the mention of Richard.
“Richard and I are divorcing, remember?” I say, pulling Gram’s attention back to me.
“Divorce? Well, that’s a shame. When you lose the one you love, a piece of your soul dies if you’re not careful. Then nothing is ever quite right . . .” Gram’s eyes cloud with sorrow.
It’s sweet how she clings to Grandpa’s memory. And if losing a husband of seventeen years
is hard on me, I can’t imagine how it feels to outlive a husband of forty-five years.
Gram clucks before asking me, “Do you still love him?”
Katy studies me, unblinking. Does she hope I say yes, or no? When I recall how he used to look at me and make me laugh, my eyes sting. But the past few years have seen more arguments than affection. He went from being someone who built me up to being someone whose waning attention filled me with self-doubt. I love our child. I respect his intellect. But in truth, we’d grown apart once I gave up fighting for his time, so my heart is less battered than my ego. Figuring out who I am now that he’s no longer at my side is the most daunting aspect of our breakup.
“A part of me will always love Richard, but I’ll be okay without him.” Honest, if not direct. “That’s why I’ve moved here. A clean slate . . . and now we can keep you company.”
Gram frowns, eyes narrowed. “Why would you move here when you can go anywhere?”
“Good question,” Katy pipes up.
“It’s always peaceful here, Gram.”
Gram’s hands fidget with the arms of her lounger. “Call a spade a spade. It’s dull . . .”
She falls silent and stares off, clearly lost in a memory, leaving me flabbergasted yet again. I set the recipe box on my knee, curious to see her response. “Gram, do you recognize this?”
Gram cranes her neck for a closer look, so I lean forward and place it in her lap.
She turns the box over for a moment, her hands gripping it tightly before shakily setting it on the oval table beside her and staring elsewhere again. I retrieve it and open the lid, displaying its contents one by one, beginning with the rusty nail. “I can’t imagine why anyone would save this, but there must be a story behind it.”
Gram doesn’t answer. Her gaze shifts toward the table but at the same time is unfocused. I try the handkerchief. “How about this? Does ‘W. T.’ mean anything to you?”
It’s possible these items belonged to her mother. My great-grandfather’s initials were not W. T., though. I’ve been assuming all the items were related, but it occurs to me now that they could be random memories, like a time capsule.
