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On my own, I learned a lot.
I didn’t mind that I didn’t fit in, or that we weren’t rich. We had a beautiful house. Turn-of-the-century, three-story (well, four if you counted the basement), red brick Victorian with gray trim. It was more than big enough, and it had been in our family for three generations. My great-grandparents built it in the thirties, and my grandmother has lived here since she was seven.
Opening the door, I immediately kicked off my boots and jogged upstairs, throwing the door closed behind me as I went.
Passing my brother’s room, I pulled off my school bag and dropped it just inside my door before continuing down the hall, softening my steps just in case.
I stopped at my grandmother’s door, leaning on the frame. The nurse, Mrs. Butler, looked up from her paperback, another wartime thriller from the looks of the cover, and smiled, her chair ceasing its rocking.
I offered a tight smile back and then looked over to the bed. “How’s she been?” I asked the nurse as I stepped quietly toward my grandma.
Mrs. Butler rose from the chair. “Hanging in there.”
I looked down, seeing her stomach shake a little and her lips purse just slightly with every breath she expelled. Wrinkles creased nearly every inch of her face, but I knew if I touched it, the skin would be softer than a baby’s. The scent of cherries and almonds washed over me, and I stroked her hair, smelling the shampoo Mrs. Butler used for her bath today.
Grand-Mère. The one person who meant everything to me.
For her, I stayed.
My eyes dropped, noticing the wine-colored fingernails the nurse must’ve painted today when she couldn’t convince my grandma to go with a nice, gentle mauve. I couldn’t hold back the small smile.
“Had to put her on oxygen for a bit,” Mrs. Butler added. “But she’s okay now.”
I nodded, watching her sleep.
My brother was convinced she’d go any day now, the occasions she was able to get out of bed fewer and fewer.
She was sticking around, though. Thank goodness.
“She likes the records,” Butler told me.
I looked over at the stack of vinyls, some stuffed haphazardly back into their sleeves laying alongside the old turntable. I’d found the whole lot at an estate sale last weekend. Thought she’d get a kick out of it, fifties baby that she was.
Well, she wasn’t born in the fifties. She was way older than that. But she was a teen in the fifties.
Mrs. Butler gathered her purse, pulling out her keys. “You’ll be okay?”
I nodded, but I didn’t look at her.
She left, and I stayed with Grandma for a bit longer, making sure I had her pills and shot ready for later, and I opened the window a few inches, letting in some fresh air, which Mrs. Butler asked us not to do, since the allergens in the air could aggravate her breathing.
Grandma said, “To hell with it.” This was her favorite time of year, and she loved the sounds and smells. I didn’t want to make her miserable merely to continue a life of misery.
Bringing up the room’s camera on my phone, I left the door open a crack, grabbed my bag from my room, and headed downstairs, starting the water boiling on the stove. I set the phone on the kitchen table, keeping an eye on her in case she needed me, and laid out my books, going through the easy stuff first.
I logged onto my laptop, requesting all the books I’d need from the public library, a few from Meridian City that Thunder Bay didn’t have, all for my history report, and drew up my outline. I finished the WebQuest and packet for physics, completed my reading for Spanish, and then stopped to chop and sauté vegetables before starting literature.
Literature… I still hadn’t done the constructed responses and they were due tomorrow.
It’s not that I didn’t like the class. It’s not that I didn’t like books.
I just didn’t like old books. Third person, wonky paragraphs a mile long, and some dumb academic trying to force me to believe there’s profound meaning in the author’s overwritten description of a piece of furniture I don’t give two shits about. I’m pretty sure the author doesn’t even know what they were trying to do in the first place, and they were probably just high on laudanum when they wrote it.
Or soothing syrup or absinthe or whatever the kids were doing in those days.
They push this shit down our throats as if there were no quality stories being written anymore, and this was it for us. The House of the Seven Gables is what Caitlyn the Cutter, who sits three seats down from me, was supposed to find relevance in? Got it.
Of course, Lolita wasn’t that old. It just sucked, and I’m pretty sure it sucked in 1955, too. I’ll ask my grandma.
