by R. S. Lively
"It's alright. I've got it," I say, stepping up beside him so I can try to scramble into the bed after my luggage.
As if just to spite me, his fingers grab onto the handle on the side of the bag and starts inching it toward himself.
"Are you sure you brought enough with you? Miss Rose said you might be sticking around for a bit."
"What else did Miss Rose tell you?" I ask.
"That she took a tumble and her granddaughter was coming along to help her."
"I plan on being here just as long as she needs me, and then I'm heading home. But no matter what, I can’t be here more than three weeks."
Why am I telling him this?
"Why is that? Too good to stay with your Grammie any longer than that?"
He launches himself toward the luggage and flattens on the tailgate. Gripping a higher handle on the suitcase, he tries to yank it closer. I grab onto it and pull it closer. The last thing I need is for this ancient man to crush himself with my luggage on my first day back.
"That is because three weeks is all of the vacation time I have, and if I don't want to lose the job I worked really hard to get, I can't stay longer than that."
Why did I tell him that?
"So, you've had three weeks of vacation saved up, and you haven't even come to see her once in… goodness knows how long?"
"She told you that, did she?" I ask, looking at him sharply. "Well, did she tell you that she comes to see me? Or that I haven't been out here in years because this is where my heart was broken? Did she tell you my first love crushed me into a fine powder and let me blow away in the wind right there on that front porch? Did she tell you I never wanted to come back here, because I didn’t want to have to face that, and it's taken everything I have in me to get over and move on? Especially after my engagement ended recently? Huh? Huh? Did she tell you that? Did she?"
Why in the hell am I still talking to him?
I don't really have anywhere to go from here except into the house. Gripping my suitcase in one hand and my carry-on in the other, I take a step back from the truck and try to look as dignified as my outburst will permit me.
"Thank you very much for the ride," I say.
He grunts at me and gets back in the truck. By the time I've climbed up the steps onto the porch and gotten to the front door, he has squealed away. I take hold of the doorknob, but immediately notice it's locked. This strikes me as strange. Grammie never locks the door in the country. She used to explain it to me in long-winded tales about remembering a better time in a world where you wouldn't even think about locking your door because you could trust your neighbor... something about fresh air and goodwill toward men... deer don't break into your house... but a bear once did. From there it always got a little fuzzy, and I would tune out. I shake the doorknob again, pushing against the weather-worn door to make sure it isn't just warped into place. When it still doesn't budge, I step back and look around the porch. Memories are lurking around every corner, and I struggle to keep myself from focusing on them as I take note of everything that has stayed the same since the last time I was here. The glider at the far end of the porch is still in place, the table sitting next to it as if just waiting to hold a glass of sweet tea. A pair of rockers is on the other side, both still. I look down at the wood planks in front of the door.
Shit. That's changed.
The welcome mat that always sat at the base of the door is no longer there. In its place is a rectangle of slightly discolored wood. I wonder how long it's been since that mat was there. Knocking on the door, I lean close and call inside to Grammie. I don't hear her coming toward the door, so I start looking around the porch. Every hook embedded in the edge of the overhang of the porch holds a hanging bucket. They used to overflow with flowers in shades of pink, purple, and blue. I once tried to convince Grammie to replace the purple ones with white for the Fourth of July, but that led into a discussion of whether we would need to change out the pink for red. By the end of the conversation, she had progressed to having to change the entirety of the landscaping of the house. I never suggested it again.
New flowers grow in the baskets now, but they are all bright yellow. I stare at them for a few seconds before returning to the door to pound on it again. When she still doesn't reply, I start feeling nervous. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something balled up under the table set beside the glider. Leaning closer to it, I realize it's the welcome mat from the door. I drag it out with the toe of my shoe and flip it around, hoping somehow the key to the door has clung to it. Though I could never convince Grammie to lock the doors when we were in the house, she somehow had no problem locking it when we weren't. Anybody and their brother could wander right in while we were inside sleeping or just going about our lives, but lord help them if they tried to come in when absolutely no one was there. Unless, of course, they peeked beneath the welcome mat and found the key hidden there like every other welcome mat in history.
I feel a little tug at my heart. As much as I fuss about the locks, it is just another example of what makes Grammie so endearing. On a whim, I glance back down at the spot where the welcome mat once sat. Two of the slats in the porch are cracked and broken, creating an oval gap. I crouch down and look into the hole. The dark clouds have rolled in thick across the sky, and I know any second now the sage words of the Mystical Truck Driver will come true, and not only will I be locked out, but trapped in a storm. The space beneath the porch is too dark to see anything, so I take out my phone and shine the flashlight down into it. The light glints off something metallic, and looking closer, I can tell it's the key. Hoping not too many creepy crawlies have taken up residence under the porch, I ease my hand between the jagged sides of the hole and reach for the key. It's just out of reach, and I lower myself to my belly, trying to press one eye to the space between two boards so I can watch what I'm doing. I feel something brush up against my hand, and I resist the urge to fling myself off the porch and run.
This is starting off spectacularly.
Finally, I feel my fingers wrap around the key, and I'm able to bring it up. It's damp and dirty from spending who-knows-how-long under the porch, but it's in my hand, and I'm going to take that as a victory in the context of the rest of my day so far. Putting the welcome mat back in place for good measure, I grab my bags and unlock the door.
"Grammie?" I call as I step into the house. "It's me. It's Fiona."
I pause for a moment to contemplate the compulsion people have to clarify who they are when calling out to someone in the house. I'd hope Grammie would be able to identify my voice by now, but it still feels like the right thing to do. I glance into the dark living room to one side and don't see any signs of Grammie being there. Moving further into the house, I check the kitchen. Part of me expects to find it filled with the smell of peach pie and coffee, but it, too, is still. A slight chill rolls through me being inside the house again. It's been more than ten years, and I can see the effect those years of neglect have had on the house. Though I know Grammie kept coming back here for several years after I stopped, the house feels cavernous and forgotten. I can see signs of age as I move through it, and I feel another wave of guilt. Grammie stopped coming out here as frequently when I vowed I'd never come back, until eventually, her visits petered out completely. I know this place meant so much to her and Gramps, and that being away from it for so long couldn't have been easy for her.
Calling out to her again, I cautiously start up the steps. The rain has started, the droplets steadily drumming on the outside of the house, and the sound creates an even eerier feeling. Finally, I make it up to the top of the steps to Grammie's room. The door is open a few inches, and I press my hand to it to guide it open, unsure what I'm preparing myself for as I hold my breath. Once the door is fully open, I see Grammie laying in her bed. Small black earbuds are tucked into her ears, the wires trailing down over the pink Rosebud design of her nightgown to connect with a sleek smartphone in her lap. I walk in a few steps, and she looks up a
t me. She jumps slightly and pulls the earbuds out of her ears.
"Shit! You scared the hell out of me," she gasps.
"Me?” I ask. “You scared the hell out of me. I've been knocking on the door out there for the last ten minutes. I had to dig around under the porch to find the spare key to get in."
"I didn't hear you," she says.
"Obviously," I say, gesturing at the phone. "What are you listening to?"
"Meditation videos," she says. "The doctor says my stress levels are too high, and that listening to these will help me to calm down and focus on healing."
I glance at her leg and notice she's wearing a large black and grey medical boot.
"Is it really that bad?" I ask, pointing at the boot.
"The doctor gave it to me to wear," she says.
I note it's not exactly an answer to my question, but I'm too worried to really focus on that. I've never seen Grammie sitting in her bed in the middle of the day. Unless, of course, during one of our traditional movie marathons. Looking at her like this – I don't know what I'm supposed to think. She seems so weak and fragile. Those are words I never would have used to describe her, but as I look at my grandmother, I can't help but feel disheartened. This is a woman who would have never been seen in a nightgown at this hour, and got up so early when I was little, I was convinced she woke up the sun. Everyone needs someone or something to wake them up in the morning, and I just figured Grammie did it for the sunrise every day. Now here she is, sitting in her bed in her nightgown in the middle of the day, her leg encased from toes to knee with a heavy plastic boot to stabilize her bone.
A sudden crash of thunder makes me scream and jump, and I'm just getting my breath to regulate, my hand pressed to my heart, when another loud sound makes me jump again.
"What in the living hell?"
The loud sound continues to echo through the house, and I realize someone is knocking on the front door. I look at Grammie, who seems invested in something on the screen of her phone.
"Someone is at the door," I say.
"Well, then, maybe you should answer it."
Anxiety twists painfully in my stomach as I walk down the hallway and back onto the stairs. I hadn't turned on any lights on the bottom floor of the house, and the storm raging outside has made the sky so dark, barely any daylight is coming through the windows. The entire effect is just a little bit too much Clue: The Movie for me. I'm at the bottom step when I hear another knock. When I was younger, there was a doorbell that resonated throughout the entire house and sounded like Lurch should come out from the hall closet and answer it. Mercifully, it broke when I was around 12. If I was hearing that creepy doorbell now, there's no way in hell I would be going anywhere near the door. As it is, I find myself wishing I had some sort of weaponry with me. Even an old baseball bat would make me feel more confident.
Giving myself a pep talk and simultaneously repeating that I'm being completely ridiculous, I sneak up to the door. The arched window at the top is too high for me to be able to look through it and identify our mystery visitor, so I press myself against the wood and turn my mouth toward it.
"Who's there?" I ask.
A muffled response comes back toward me.
"What? I can't understand you," I say.
There's another muffled response that sounds something like 'open the door'.
"I'm not opening the door," I yell against another rumble of thunder. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
"Fiona, open the fucking door!"
Did they say my name? What the…
There's another crash of thunder just as I'm shouting to the voice again, but when they respond, the storm has gone quiet, and I hear him clearly. This doesn't inspire me to open the door. In fact, it makes me wish there were about four more locks, so I could engage them all and run upstairs.
"Fiona! Open the door! I’m soaked!"
I stare at the door, not wanting to open it. Ever. This is exactly why I didn't want to come back here. I never wanted to think about that voice, much less have only a couple of inches of wooden door separating me from its owner. I know I can't just walk away, though. As much as I'd like to, it's not an option. My hand shakes as I turn the lock and reach for the doorknob. Opening the door in one fast motion, I look out at the porch and the man standing against the stormy backdrop beyond.
It's been so many years. Such a long time has passed since the last time I stood on this porch with this man in front of me. Those years have changed him. The last time I saw him, as he walked away and left me alone on the porch, he was still so much of a boy. Barely out of his teenage years, he was gangly, his body slim, and his face still slightly soft. All of that is gone. His bright green eyes are the same, but the years have hardened the rest of him. His face is strong and angular now, his jaw tense and square. His shoulders are broad and powerful, the chiseled muscles of his chest obvious even through the button-up shirt casually untucked from jeans that cover long, muscular legs. An involuntary shiver rolls through me.
"Cade."
I feel like his name tumble through my lips without it ever registering in my brain. Saying his name out loud burns my chest as it cuts through years of scar tissue.
"Are you going to let me in, Fiona?"
It's a perfectly innocent question. One that makes perfect sense considering the wind has picked up and sheets of rain are hitting him every few seconds. But, he has no right to be here. I hold the door tighter and glare out at him.
"Why should I?" I ask.
"Because Grammie wants me here."
"Don't call her that."
"What?"
"Don't call her that. Don't call her Grammie."
Cade scoffs. "What should I call her then?"
"Rose. Or Mrs. Helms."
"You've got to be kidding. I've always called her Grammie."
"Well, she's not your grandmother!" I hiss.
Wow, Fiona, wasn’t that petty as fuck.
Cade scoffs. Apparently over the pretense of acting polite, he pushes past me into the house.
"Don't be like this, Fiona. Your grandmother asked me to come and help her. She never mentioned you would be here. But even if she had, it wouldn't have stopped me from coming. We're adults."
I feel my face burn, and my hands tighten by my sides.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means it's been ten years. There's no need for you to act this way toward me, especially when I'm not here to see you in the first place."
I’m surprised at how much his words sting. There is a seriousness and confidence radiating off Cade that was never there before. When we were younger, he was softer, more playful. It seems he grew out of the bright smile and boundless energy he once had into the man standing in front of me – hard and controlling.
"Fine," I manage to choke out through the tension in my jaw.
"How is Grammie?" he asks.
"She doesn't look good," I say. "I think this really took a toll on her."
I see the unconvinced look on his face, and immediately feel defensive.
"I'm sure you're overreacting," he says.
"And why would you say that?"
"This is Grammie you're talking about. I know she's getting older and she misses Gramps. Being without him has been hard on her, but it hasn't changed who she is. She is still the eccentric, independent woman she always has been. She’s probably doing just fine here by herself."
"Apparently, she isn't," I argue.
"This is the woman who was kicked out of a casino for reasons I don't know and likely never want to find out, and has more friends now than you and I have had in our entire lives, combined. She's fine."
"You haven't seen her. You don't know anything about her now."
"Of course, I've seen her. Not since she's gotten hurt, but I just saw her a couple of weeks ago."
That stops me.
"What?"
"We have lunch every once in a while."
With that, Cade walks pas
t me through the entryway and starts up the stairs.
"You do what?" I finally croak, starting after him.
By the time I get to the top of the steps, Cade has already gone into Grammie's room. When I step in, I notice she looks distinctly less pale and drawn. A pouch sits on the table beside her bed, the zipper slightly open and a few of her favorite cosmetic products poking out.
Grammie put on fucking makeup while I answered the door. She knew he was coming.
I walk up to the side of the bed, not caring that they are in the middle of a conversation.
"Grammie, why didn't you tell me Cade was coming?" I ask.
She looks at me with wide, innocent eyes.
"He's here for me," she says. "I didn't think I needed to tell you."
"You didn't think you needed…." I pause and draw in a breath, letting it out slowly. This is an elderly, injured woman. This is an elderly, injured woman. "Why is he here?"
"He's here to make some repairs around the house," she says. "I told you there are some problems, and they caused my fall."
"Yeah," I say, pointing out the bedroom door toward the rest of the house. "I noticed how bad of a condition the house is in. How have you been living here for the past few months?"
"A few months?" Cade asks, eyeing Grammie, a surprised look on his face.
"W – well –" Grammie stutters, wearing the sheepish expression of someone caught in a lie.
"You didn't move out here?" I ask, my voice creeping higher. "You told me you moved out here a few months ago because you've been missing Gramps so much."
Grammie holds up a finger to stop me.
"Wait. Wait a minute. To be fair, I told you I decided to move out here for good a few months ago because I am missing your Gramps so much. That's true. I did decide a few months ago. I just didn't get around to making the actual move until about a week ago."
I hang my head in defeat and cover my eyes with my right hand.
"And then you fell."
"Yes.”
"So, you called me to come take care of you, and Cade to repair the house."
