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Deciding to explore further, I left the living room and went around the corner to the next area, which was a formal dining room. There was nothing to see here except a large, oval dining table with six chairs.
The only odd thing was the chair at the head of the table—it was way bigger than the other five chairs and it was built more solidly too—its wooden legs were as big as my thighs. And believe me, I have some thick thighs. It looked like it could support someone much bigger and heavier than your average human being.
I frowned. Had my Grandmother had giant friends come to visit? Who in the world besides someone the size of a professional wrestler would need a chair this thick and sturdy?
I waited to see if I would get any flashes of memory to answer the question, but when there were none forthcoming, I decided to wander into the next room of the house.
It was the kitchen and if you’ve heard the term “grandma kitchen,” well, that’s exactly what it looked like. There was an old-fashioned stove/oven in one corner with black burners ringed by aluminum foil—presumably to keep them clean. Beside the stove was a long countertop with a sink in the middle. There was a window in front of it which looked out into a large, sloping backyard filled with more Maple trees and a stream running at the bottom.
More countertops and cabinets ran along the side wall. I saw several canisters labeled “Sugar” and “Flour” and another, smaller one labeled “tea.” Beside the canisters was a mug rack with several thick pottery mugs that looked handmade. On the faded and scuffed linoleum floor was a large, oval rag rug in many different colors.
Hanging on the wall, beside the sink, was a faded calendar that seemed to be from a local business. There was a gorgeous picture of an old covered bridge flanked by trees with red and gold and orange leaves at the top and the name of the business printed in dark block letters at the bottom.
“Goodman Kreeches Grocery and Co-op” it read. And under that in flowing script,
“Proudly serving both Humans and Creatures since 1694.”
I stared at the faded calendar blankly for a moment. 1694—seriously? How could that be? That was back before the Revolutionary War! In fact, it was even before the Salem Witch Trials. Or was it after? Way back in high school I had written a paper on the Witch Trials, but I was a little hazy on my historical dates at the moment. You don’t need to know much history to write crappy copy for the Home Shopping Network.
Also, what were “Creatures?” Did that mean animals? Maybe it was one of those old-timey stores that sold groceries and animal feed too.
Giving up on the odd name, I focused on the dates on the calendar. It was from almost exactly five years before. Someone had been using an old ballpoint pen—which was hanging from a string thumb-tacked into the wall beside the calendar—to mark off the dates with a single line through each square. But they had stopped on January 11th, five years ago. Was that when my Grandma had died?
Why didn’t she ever contact me? I wondered. Had she had a falling out with my mother? But Mom had died two years ago—that would have given us at least some time to get reconnected. I really could have used a maternal figure in my life after Mom’s passing. But if she and Grandma weren’t talking, maybe my Grandmother hadn’t known about her death and the fact that I was all alone in the world.
The calendar was a mystery but I wasn’t going to solve it by just standing there and staring. I went on with my tour of the kitchen, interested in everything I saw.
At the far end of the second counter there was an old-fashioned refrigerator in faded pale blue—the kind with the freezer compartment on the top and the fridge on the bottom. I walked over and saw several childish drawings still stuck on with colorful magnets.
One in particular caught my eye—a small handprint, done in red and blue finger paint. I held my own hand up to compare and had another one of those memory flashes I was almost beginning to get used to.
The woman who must be my Grandmother with her grey hair in a neat bun at the back of her neck was looking down at me and speaking as she put the handprint picture on the front of the refrigerator.
“That’s perfect, Sarah! Now Grandma can always remember you when you were little. Before you know it, you’ll grow up and probably be taller than me!”
This was the strongest flash yet and I was dizzy when it passed. I also seemed to feel a warm and comforting presence around me. Looking at the round kitchen table which was covered in a blue and white checked cloth, I could almost see my younger self sitting there, drawing and coloring or eating warm chocolate chip cookies with a cold glass of milk…
“I loved it here,” I murmured, as more flashes of memory raced though my mind. “It was my favorite room in Grandma’s house.”
But how could I have forgotten it so thoroughly and completely? I could almost hear my Grandma humming as she mixed another batch of brownies or slid an apple pie, glazed with egg wash and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, into the old-fashioned oven.
Suddenly my mouth was watering for a piece of that apple pie. It had been the best, most delicious thing my Grandma made, I remembered now. Her crust was always perfectly flakey and the apples were so tender they melted in your mouth.
“She made me that pie every time I came to visit—she even let me help,” I murmured to myself. “Maybe she’s the reason I love to bake.”
It’s true—baking is totally one of my love languages. If I like you, I will make you fat. It’s a big stress reliever too—there’s nothing like whipping up a batch of homemade brownies to lower my stress level. The act of mixing and baking and the warm scent of something in the oven make me feel calm, even when I’m at my most anxious. (Needless to say, I’d been baking way more than I should since I lost my main job at HSN.)
It was so strange to be rediscovering this part of my past, and yet exciting too. So far all the memories I’d had were good ones. I felt accepted in this house, cared for—loved.
“And so you are child—always loved,” whispered the little voice in my ear again. This time it didn’t make me jump. It was almost like a warm hug—a welcome home.
“I’m going to love baking in this kitchen!” I said out loud and felt a smile on my face for the first time in weeks. Was I really home? This house—Morris—certainly felt like home—even more than my Mom’s house had.
I looked out the kitchen window and saw memories of myself sledding down the sloping backyard in the Winter and jumping into piles of leaves in the Fall. I saw younger me wading in the silvery stream in the Summer and I saw myself gathering apples—the big, golden kind with scarlet specks all over their satiny skin that only grew in Grandma’s garden. Freckled Beauties, she called them…
Wait a minute—apples? The same kind that had been in her pies? I looked harder—the backyard really was huge and it wasn’t fenced in or anything, so it wandered all the way down to a small stream flowing at the far edge of the property.
Most of the trees were Maples, but I saw a huge Weeping Willow at the edge of the stream and then—peeking through the colorful leaves of the other trees—I thought I saw what looked like the round, golden shape of an apple.
