A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

“I know what you're doing,” Gram replied, narrowing her eyes at me as if she could see the secrets clouding my heart. “Lucky for you, I'm going to let you. It's been a while since I talked about the early days with Edgar. I miss him every day. Those first few years of marriage, we didn't have a clue about what the future would hold.”

  “Kind of like now,” I added.

  “Yes. I don't know how much time I have left. Back then, the future was wide before us. We believed the world, or at least Geneva, was our oyster. We had so much to learn about ourselves and each other. There I was, transplanted from Charlotte, the only home I'd ever known. Suddenly I'm living in a place where everyone has a funny accent, the winters are freezing, and porches are more for show than a place to sit every evening. To top it off, I had the responsibility of running a house and looking after Edgar. I was expected to know how to do it all. Mother had tried to teach me the ways of being a wife, but I'd been more interested in my friends and the allures of city life.”

  Gram was the consummate cook, hostess, and caregiver. I couldn't imagine a time in which she hadn't excelled as a homemaker.

  “Your poor grandfather endured a lot of trial and error each meal, but I proved to be a quick learner. Running a home wasn't enough for me, however. As I didn't get pregnant right away, I decided I should work at the bank myself. Edgar wasn't keen on the idea at first but I charmed him into it. Until Marcus was born, Edgar and I lived and worked together, sometimes to our detriment, but mostly to our gain.”

  As we talked through Gram's past, we moved to the kitchen while I prepared dinner. An easy pasta and chicken dish she'd taught me years before. She picked at the meal, while I packed it away. The showdown with Dan and Mimi had affected my appetite for the better.

  Eventually Gram yawned and declared she'd retire for the night. The clock tolled an hour too early for bedtime as I walked her to her room. I perched on her bed as she went through her nighttime routine. How many times had I watched her apply Pond's to her face, removing traces of the day? As a child, I had found this ritual to be the epitome of glamor. How many more nights would she have the strength to stand before the mirror?

  I let myself out of the house, quietly shutting the door. I tested it to be sure it was locked, then walked toward my car. Rain misted over me.

  I turned the car on, then sat for a moment. I retrieved my phone from my purse, scanning the missed calls and texts.

  Reagan hadn't called like he’d said. Disappointment settled over me. Thank God I hadn't mentioned him to Gram.

  The windshield wipers beat the rain into submission. I stowed the phone and headed home.

  Chapter Ten

  The aroma of the zucchini and feta quiche filled the kitchen. The breakfast nook boasted Gram's favorite cranberry-orange muffins and a fruit salad. The tea kettle boiled, ready to whistle. My movements had the cadence of someone familiar with a kitchen, but I continued to look over my shoulder, expecting Gram to direct my actions.

  True, I hadn't needed her tutorials for years now, but her cooking wisdom seasoned these Saturday brunches. She currently rested in the living room, tuckered out at ten in the morning, while I prepared our meal. I wondered how we'd ever missed the changes in Gram's health before. Had her body breathed a sigh of relief in having a name for what ailed her?

  I broke out the good china. Typically saved for holidays and special announcements, I didn't see the point in keeping it stowed away. Gram should enjoy the pattern while she could.

  The table looked nice. No matter what our discussion held, we'd at least dine like queens. I headed into the living room to wake Gram. She looked so peaceful asleep. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was perfectly healthy, albeit thinner. Such a contrast from what lay ahead.

  Before I drew near, Gram's eyes popped open. She sat up in the recliner and stretched.

  “The smell of the quiche preceded you,” she announced.

  “Everything's set, Gram. Ready to eat?”

  “I do believe that appetite medicine is kicking in. I am more than ready.”

  We ambled together to the breakfast nook. My arms stayed helpless at my side, unsure if I should hover or take her arm to fully assist her. She didn't seem like she had trouble walking but I didn't want her to have an accident on my watch.

  I breathed a silent sigh of relief once we were both seated.

  We eagerly filled plates. I started to tell her how each dish was made before Gram stopped me.

  “Olivia Jane, you don't need to tell me all this. You have turned into a fine cook. I trust what you've prepared this morning will be excellent as always.”

  The serving spoon hung in midair as I looked at her.

  “Thank you, Gram. I appreciate the vote of confidence. I know you needed to rest but it wasn't the same without you in here.” I hesitated to say anything else. Her eyes implored me to continue. “You taught me everything I know about cooking and baking. Even when I'm in my own kitchen, your voice guides me on substitutions and when the bread smells ready and how to use up leftovers. But this morning, I was alone and it struck me this is how things are now. I don't know what to do with that.”

  I finished serving myself and waited to hear what she might say. The quiche steamed as I broke a muffin apart.

  “I wish I could make it easier for you, dear. Instead, I've put you right in the eye of the storm. Selfishly, this means you'll be here more often.” I opened my mouth to protest but she continued. “Yes, I know you'd visit anyway but I want you involved. No, I need you to be involved. The moment you agreed to be my caregiver, a weight lifted off of me. There are simply no words for my gratitude.”

  It's not that Gram hoarded words of praise. It's that her affirmation was doled out like a present, meaningful and on special occasions. Her words eased a tension in my shoulders I didn't realize was there. But I still didn't understand why she'd chosen me.

  I finished chewing, then took a sip of tea, buying time to think. My brow furrowed as I tried to make sense of the last two weeks. I didn't realize I hadn't responded until Gram poked me.

  “Sorry, Gram, I drifted away there for a sec.” I paused, not sure if I should come out and ask or save it for the serious discussion we'd be having later. I pushed forward. “Gram, why did you pick me?”

  She looked back at me, as if the question had never occurred to her. Or as if I should know the answer. She was the only family member who found her choice to be obvious.

  “Why wouldn't I pick you?”

  “Let me count the ways. I'm a grandchild, not one of your children. The whole family thinks I'm a screw up. I don't have an ounce of medical understanding in me.” I ticked each one off on my hand. “Do you want me to continue? I'm sure Uncle Marcus could contribute a few reasons to that list.”

  “You and Marcus, my lands. One of these days y'all are going to have to make amends.”

  I scoffed.

  One eyebrow arched as I stared back at her, unmoved. “Fine. The day he apologizes to me is the day I'll make amends.”

  Gram set her fork down and leaned back in her chair. Her gaze settled on me, but she didn't speak at first.

  “Olivia Jane, I chose you because not once have you bent to the old and familiar, the tried and true to which this family is accustomed. Even as a little girl you had your own way of doing things. I knew back then you weren't cut out for the bank, not because you wouldn't be good but because it wasn't your dream. Frasiers don't tend to be dreamers.”

  “You are,” I shot back.

  “Yes, I am. When I imagine what I could have accomplished if I'd grown up in another era.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It wasn't meant to be, however. I was happy to work at the bank because it meant I worked. The job itself didn't matter to me. Back then, we didn't have all the options folks have today. When I look at you, I see myself. That's part of why I chose you. Because you'll make the decisions I would make, when I'm unable to voice them myself.”

  “Okay,” I said, drawing out the syllables. �
�I'm honored you see any part of yourself in me. I'm going to do whatever it takes to live up to your faith in me.”

  “Have faith in yourself, Olivia Jane,” she admonished. “I trust you already.”

  “I know, Gram.” I cocked my head at her. “Now spill the rest of it. You didn't choose me just because I remind you of yourself.”

  Gram nailed me with her eyes. “Are you sure you want to know the answer?”

  I shifted in my chair, unsure of where she headed. Of course, I wanted to know the answer. An insight as to why I alone could bear this responsibility. A morsel of encouragement for the tough road ahead.

  “Sure, I'm sure,” I said.

  “What have I always told you, Livvie?”

  Livvie. Not Olivia Jane. Gram reserved Livvie for the most tender of moments, especially when she wanted to ensure her imparted wisdom stuck with me.

  “You've told me a lot of things. I don't know. Don't forget your sweater?” I wanted to make her laugh, to distract her. I knew what she wanted me to say. I didn't want to admit I had, in fact, failed.

  Her long gazes unnerved me this morning. Gram tended to say whatever she thought, not stare to the point of discomfort. I shoved a forkful of quiche in my mouth. I might as well eat before the interrogation began.

  “When,” Gram began, changing topics. “When is the last time you were happy? I mean, down to your toes, can't keep the smile off your face happy.”

  I looked at the assortment on my plate. The red strawberries contrasting with the brown muffin and yellow-white quiche. Happiness. Another stark contrast.

  I pushed my plate back, no longer hungry.

  “Why are you asking me this?” I didn’t want to talk about this.

  “I wish I didn't need to ask it. We both know why, just like you know the answer to my last question.” She popped a grape in her mouth and waited for my response.

  “Fine. What have you always told me? To live a storied life. Am I doing that? What do you think?” I retorted. Bitterness tinged my words and I couldn’t think how to soften the blow or end the conversation.

  “You don't need to hear what I think. I want you to answer the question.” Gram insisted, not unkindly. Love radiated from her eyes. I didn't know how to answer this question without incriminating myself. No one, including myself, was ready for that kind of honesty.

  I rubbed my eyes, not caring if my mascara smeared. The dull edge of a headache set in. So much for a lighthearted breakfast.

  Gram sat there, the epitome of her life's lesson. Live your own story. Make every moment count. Press through fears. Don't live with regret. Be authentic. Be yourself no matter the circumstances. If you have to make a decision, picture yourself telling someone what you chose and then go with whichever option makes the better story. Every situation, good or bad, sifted through Gram's equation of living a storied life.

  She practiced what she preached. She'd survived loss after loss. She'd risen above others' low expectations. She'd found the love of her life and raised a family who adored her. She remained involved in her community and forever came up with new activities to try. Gram had never been described as boring. She was a risk taker, an adventurer.

  She was my hero, but I did not want to examine the mirror she held before me.

  Although, I didn't know how much longer she'd be around to challenge me.

  “How do you do that, Gram?” I exclaimed.

  Gram snorted, always an unexpected sound from my genteel grandmother. “It’s my secret power. I only wish I could make your life be exactly how you want it to be. I know you don't think it's a bad life—and it's not. You've been living half-awake for too long, though, and I'm afraid I should have questioned you about it sooner than now.”

  “My life is not your responsibility though. I made these choices. I'm the one who didn't take your lessons to heart. I'm the one who feels like a fraud every day.” I stopped. I'd said too much. “The gallery is a bigger success than anyone thought it would be. That's because of me. I wish it was enough, but it's not. I'm not sure what else I would do.”

  “Really?” Gram arched her eyebrow again. “I'm certain you know exactly what else you would do. Paint. You lived and breathed art for so many years and then poof, that dream was gone. As if it had never happened.”

  “That was another time in my life. Plenty of kids dream of doing something, only to realize it isn't practical or they no longer want to do that in the end,” I replied. The plate of half-eaten food mocked me.

  “You don't have to tell me the truth if you don't want to but at least honor me by not lying to my face.”

  I blinked in surprise. “I don't know what you want me to say. I also don't see what all this has to do with you choosing me to be your POA.”

  “I thought that would be perfectly clear by now. Sometimes death can birth a new life in us. When your grandfather died, I was bereft. I had to figure out who I was all over again after so many years of taking care of others. I've always been the same person, just a new and improved version along the way. I'm giving you a chance to take stock of your life, not so you'll be like me but so you'll be more yourself. I love you the way you are, Olivia Jane, but you're missing out on what else life could hold for you.”

  Moisture gathered in my eyes, accompanied by a lump in my throat. I busied my hands with clearing the table.

  “I appreciate that, Gram. I do. Maybe this will help me figure out what to do next. Suzy does such a great job at Madison so this could be an opportunity for her to see what running the place is really like.”

  “I hope you'll use this time to discover your own opportunities as well.” Gram wasn’t going to let this go.

  I stood up and kissed her on the top of her head. “Thank you for looking out for me, Gram. I'm just going to clean up a bit in here and then we can have our discussion.”

  Gram had taught me to clean as I cooked so there was not much left by way of messiness. I took care of the brunch dishes and stowed the leftovers. Then I wiped off the counters and looked in the pantry to see what needed replenishing. I didn't purposely dawdle but I wasn't a beacon of efficiency either.

  Finally, I joined Gram in the living room. She'd settled into her favorite chair and smiled as though no tension had been present earlier. Fine by me.

  I pulled out my notebook and thumbed through the advice and questions raised by the hospice team. For the next hour, Gram talked seriously about her final days. She told me about yesterday's visit with the hospice chaplain. She updated me on her funeral arrangements and who she wanted to say goodbye to before her time ran out. She informed me of her wish to die naturally, no artificial feedings or tubes, no resuscitation, nothing.

  I sat and listened. Her answers weren't always easy to take in and I secretly hoped I would never need to use this information. Understanding her point of view was important though. There would be no guesswork involved if things did not go their expected course.

  Eventually our conversation drifted elsewhere.

  “Now, are you going to tell me about the guy in your life or do I have to pry it out of you?”

  “What? How did—who said—” I lost the ability to form a coherent sentence. I hadn't told anyone in the family about Reagan. Not that there was anything to tell. I looked bug-eyed at Gram, in awe of her power.

  “I've always been able to tell when you were interested in someone. First, you get just a bit distracted. Second, you start checking your phone a lot. Third, your eyes twinkle more than usual. You have all the classic signs.”

  I would not underestimate Gram again any time soon. I couldn't believe she hadn't said something sooner, especially the other day when she’d asked me to be open to falling in love. I smiled in spite of myself.

  “There it is,” Gram crowed.

  “Don't get too excited,” I cautioned. “There's really not much to tell.”

  “It's enough that someone's making you smile. Now fill in your dying grandmother,” Gram batted her eyelashes.

>   “Are you going to keep using that line? Because it's going to get old fast.” Before she could tease me in response, I pushed through. “His name is Reagan. He's a prospective artist at the gallery. Well, that's how we met but he’ll be exhibiting with us at the end of August. There's something about him, Gram.”

  “Go on,” Gram prompted.

  “He's smart and funny and there's this depth to him that I haven't seen in a guy in a long time. Plus, he’s really good-looking. He’s practically a unicorn. I took him to the Sox game last week and hardly paid attention to the game.” At her gasp, I replied, “I know. Me, obsessed with our team and only half watching because we were so intent on our conversation.”

  I glossed over the content of said conversation. I owned my angst but Gram didn't need to be drawn into that particular cesspool. How I coped with her dying was my business. She didn't need to worry about anyone but herself right now.

  “Here's the thing. I can't figure out if he's interested in me or if this is solely a professional relationship. He gives me these ridiculous compliments. The kind that makes you hope there’s something more. We had a fantastic time at the game but then I didn't hear from him for over a week. The other day, when Dan and Mimi were here? He said he'd call me that night but when I left here, there was no missed call. Trying to read his mind was driving me crazy so I just wrote him off,” I concluded.

  Reagan had eventually called that night. When I’d gotten home, I’d decided a few hours in front of the TV were in order. I sat on my couch in my favorite pajamas eating and drinking a glass of wine. As the stress eased its way out of my body, the phone rang and my body automatically tensed back up.

  Naturally Reagan's name flashed across the screen. How do guys always know the moment you've moved on? The phone rang again and I debated sending him to voicemail but then I'd be left with the quandary of responding to whatever message he left.

  I answered. He apologized for not calling sooner, said he’d lost track of time. I deflected and directed the conversation to professional ground. We reviewed his signed contract with little trouble. I was about to wrap up the call—reality TV was calling my name—when he’d asked if we could get together for dinner this weekend.