by K. L Randis
Symmetrical paintings depicting the ocean floated above each couch. I wandered over to the wood stove and looked up at the mantle filled with pictures of family, grandkids, and knickknacks from the beach.
I sunk into a couch and stared up at the ceiling that seemed to go on forever. The room smelled and felt like Grandma. “My goodness, look at how big everyone is getting,” Grandma said. She put Kat on the living room floor. “I think that somebody’s birthday is coming up, but I can’t remember who.” She met my eyes with a smile.
“Me! It’s my birthday Grandma. I’m turning eight.” I smiled.
She remembered.
“Oh it is?” she exclaimed, bringing her hand to her forehead. “Well I guess we’ll just need to go to Toys R Us while everyone else swims then.”
“Oh Mom, no,” Mom started, shaking her head, “not necessary.” She handed Kat a stuffed bear and pulled a pill bottle out of her pocket. Two oval shaped, cream colored pills fell into her hand. With a fluid motion she popped them into her mouth and threw her head back.
Now you see them, now you don’t.
I had heard my mom repeat the story of how she hurt her back thousands of times. She had worked as a nurse’s aide at Great Side Hospital in lower Manhattan. Her shifts were sporadic, and having four small children at home made it difficult to juggle everything.
She managed to generate a significant income working around Dad’s work schedule. They had asked her to work a double shift a few weeks before Christmas and she obliged, making a quick last-minute call to the babysitter.
A heavy-set man had just come out of surgery for gallstones and she assisted in transporting him to his room. The registered nurse left the room suddenly, telling my mom not to move him until she came back with more help. She hurried out before my mom could protest otherwise.
The man groggily tried to shift himself from the cot to the bed on his own. His weight fought against him, and he began to slip in between the two beds. Mom acted on instinct and pushed against the cot to catch him between the two beds instead of letting him fall to the floor.
Two nurses walked into the room a second too late and scrambled over to help just as Mom fell to the floor from the pressure. She herniated and ruptured seven discs in her back; doctors were sure she would never be pain or painkiller free for the rest of her life.
She had saved her job by doing the right thing and she saved the hospital from a major lawsuit. In return, she became a permanently disabled mother to four children, eventually succumbing to such intense chronic pain after five back surgeries that she started collecting social security disability and had to leave her job permanently.
I remember one day I watched a girl run off of the school bus and her mom swooped her up and swung her around in a tight hug, backpack attached and all. The mom kissed her head as she set her down, eyes bright and chatting about how her day was. My eyes welled up. I came home and accused my mom of not loving me.
“Why can’t you pick me up?” I cried. “I’m the smallest one in my class, I’m little!”
Mom started crying too. “Oh, Brooke, I’m sorry. I just…can’t.” She gripped the edges of her back brace with white knuckles.
I couldn’t even sit in her lap as I sobbed. My only comfort was to stand next to her while she sat at the kitchen table and bury my face in her shirt until I had nothing left to cry.
That day I learned to let go of things like being picked up and feeling hugs that squished my bones. Instead, I focused on giving those things to Adam, Thomas, and Kat. I wanted to feel that closeness, even if I was the one who had to initiate it.
“Oh no, no, I want to. I insist she pick something for her birthday,” Grandma beamed, watching my mom swallow her pills. She turned to me. “You ready, sugar? Let’s go.”
We talked about the beach and my upcoming birthday as she merged onto the highway. “So, tell me everything, what grade are you going into?” she asked.
The only time I stopped talking the entire ride was to ask her what she thought about the rule of checking out only three books from the library at a time. I was pleased to find we shared the same opinion of it being totally unfair.
As we pulled into the parking lot of Toys R Us she asked me what I wanted. “I’m not sure,” I said. I tapped my foot and waited for Grandma to turn off the car. The store was full of beautiful dolls, board games, and costumes. I was headed right for the notorious pink aisle all of the girls at school talked about.
Grandma held my hand as we crossed the parking lot and gave it a little squeeze as the double door opened in front of us. “Whatever you want,” she said. She meant it.
I sped past the clearance toys and stuffed animals. The Barbie aisle was a short distance from the outdoor play section. Grandma strolled close behind me. “Oh, look at this one,” I said. Princess Barbie was off of the shelf and cradled against my chest. Swim Team Barbie stared at me. “Or this one. Grandma she has a bathing suit, she can swim with me.”
Grandma laughed. “She can! Whatever one you want, take your time.”
Each doll’s face and features had to be considered along with the extras each doll came with: a stroller, an umbrella, and binoculars. There were so many. I lined up three choices next to each other and studied them. School Teacher Barbie won; she came with a blackboard and real chalk. “This one,” I said, and handed it to Grandma.
“Excellent choice.”
She took my hand and headed toward the registers. I let her cruise me around passing people and aisles so I could study my Barbie’s clothes inside the box. A toddler down one aisle threw himself on the ground in protest over a matchbox car. The checkout lane was a few feet in front of us when I saw something. I tugged on Grandma’s hand. “Wait. Grandma, can I look at something?”
She checked her watch. “Sure sugar, quick though. Grandpa should have started the grill by now.”
An end aisle with a clearance display caught my attention. I picked up a small book with Disney’s Aladdin and Jasmine on the cover, turning it over in my hand. A jingle from the side forced a smile. A small, silver lock clasped the front and back of the book together. My eyes widened. “Grandma, I want this instead.”
I handed it over and Grandma flipped it from front to back. She checked the price, a mere $3.99, and gave me a crooked smile. “This?” she asked. “Do you know what it’s for?”
“It’s a journal,” I said. I saw them on TV and read about them, but I never had one. It was a real journal, with a lock to keep all thoughts and secrets forever bound to the person who wrote in it. “Please, Grandma?” I asked. I tried to read her face.
She looked at the Barbie in one hand and journal in the other. She thought for a minute, and then bent down until her blue eyes were level with mine. “If you really want it and only if you promise to write in it every day, until it’s completely full,” she bargained.
My heart skipped. “Every single day,” I promised.
“Okie dokie.” She stood up and tucked the Barbie on a nearby shelf, shaking her head. “Of all the things in this store, it doesn’t surprise me.” She put the journal on the conveyor belt and paid with a crisp five-dollar bill.
We got back to the house just as Grandpa was pulling burgers and hot dogs off of the grill. I rushed inside, eager to show Mom and Adam my present. “Look what Grandma got me!” I gave it to Mom and wiggled in next to Adam on the patio bench to eat a cheeseburger.
“Oh?” Mom said. She flipped it over. “Mom, you took her to Toys R Us and got her a book?”
“It’s what she wanted,” Grandma said. She shrugged, taking a seat next to Kat and Grandpa. “She’s the birthday girl.”
“It’s not a book Mom, it’s a journal,” I corrected. Lemonade dribbled down my chin. “Grandpa, Grandma got me a journal and I have to write in it every day. I will too, I’ll write on every page.”
“Mmm,” he said in agreement, putting ketchup on his burger. “Good.”
Grandpa wouldn’t have been a very good jou
rnal keeper. He didn’t talk much. It’s usually what he didn’t say that said a lot.
After dinner Adam and I swam in the pool while the adults poured drinks into glasses shaped like tennis balls. Grandpa’s brow was pressed together as he stood next to Mom’s chair. He was telling her something important, I knew, because he shook his finger at her as he talked. Grandma brought us ice pops a short time later and we sat next to the adults to eat them.
Grandpa still had a perplexed look on his face and tried to give Mom some money. “You need it, just take it Molly,” he demanded.
Grandpa didn’t like it when Mom turned down his ideas. She gave a brief rebuttal before he stuffed the bills into her purse. He mumbled for a few more minutes and finally excused himself from the table to check his tomato plants.
When it was time to leave I thanked Grandma again for the journal and tucked it under my arm. “Remember your promise,” she said, winking at me and giving me a final hug. I couldn’t wait to get home to write in it.
We pulled up in front of our unimpressive ranch. Dad’s car was absent from the driveway. “I’m putting Kat to bed,” Mom called over her shoulder. “Adam, help Thomas inside and clean up these toys before your father gets home. Brooke, load the dishwasher would you?” Kat slumped over Mom’s shoulder like a hefty rag doll, puffing out breaths of air.
I lugged a kitchen chair over to the sink. Once I was level with the countertop, I picked dried spaghetti off of plates and splashed water inside the cups that had sour milk. The liquid soap container weighed down my arm but I finally managed to pour some into the square tray of the dishwasher. The sink was empty ten minutes later, and I used my shirt as a towel.
The front door opened and I heard heavy boots in the hallway. Dad was home.
TO CONTINUE READING,
click here or visit klrandis.com for more information.
‘Spilled Milk won’t change the world, the people who read it will.’
-K.L. Randis
"I read this book in two days. I couldn't put it down." - Chelsea DeBoer, Teen Mom 2
"This book has changed lives." -Gabrielle Stone, Actress
"The honest, raw openness of your writing style is compelling. Your story touched me deeply." - Juliet Pritner, Actress, Law & Order: SVU
