And she’s right. I will be.
I’m up at six-thirty, but not because Evie Lalonde is coming to teach me yoga. I’ve decided during the night that’s not happening. I’ve suffered plenty of humiliations in the last eight years, but this is one I haven’t earned. So, no. No, thank you.
I’m up because Grandma Q rises by dawn to make breakfast, and if she’s going to go to so much trouble, I might as well be there to eat it.
After I get up, shave, and dress, I find Grandma at the kitchen table in her housecoat. She’s sipping a cup of coffee, and I can smell biscuits in the oven, but she looks a little washed out. She’s rubbing a hand to her side as though she’s stiff.
“Morning, Grandma. You okay?”
Her face brightens when she sees me, and she drops her hand, but in this moment, she looks her age. “Just moving a little slower today, is all.” She sets down her coffee cup and shifts to push back from the table. “Here, let me pour you some cof—”
I place a staying hand on her shoulder. “I can get my own coffee, Grandma Q.” And then I get busy doing it so she won’t think she needs to wade in. When my cup is made, I take a seat at the table across from her.
“Did you sleep alright?”
She scrunches up her nose, her way of saying she’d rather not talk about it. “A spot of bother and a touch of a headache kept me up, but I took my blood pressure medicine when I got up, and I feel better.”
“You have high blood pressure?” I hear myself ask, feeling dumb the moment the question leaves my lips.
Her eyes dance. “I’m eighty-three years old, Andrew.” She chuckles. “I’ve got that and a lot more.”
I smile, but her words make my insides feel weighted. One thing being released has made me realize is just how much she’s aged. The first morning I was here, I noticed the days-of-the-week pill dispenser on her kitchen counter, but I guess I just chose to ignore what it meant. I’m not ready to live in a world without Grandma Quincy.
“What are you doing today?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
She takes a sip of her coffee. “I’m puttin’ up my okra.”
“Putting it up?” I glance around her kitchen. “Where?”
Grandma’s mouth twists to the side, and I can see she’s laughing at me without actually laughing.
“I’m gonna pick what’s ready and add it to what I’ve picked this week. Half of that I’ll chop and put in the deep freezer for gumbos. The other half’ll get pickled.”
I have no idea what I’m signing up for, but I don’t hesitate. “I’ve got all day,” I tell her. “Put me to work.”
Her smile tells me she’s pleased. “Alright.”
The oven timer buzzes then, and I get to my feet. “I’ll get that.”
“Oh, pooh,” she fusses, struggling to stand. “You don’t have to do all that.”
“Yes, I do,” I say, slipping on a pair of oven mitts. “I need to help out more around here. You don’t need to be doing everything.”
I open the oven and pull out a tray of golden, hand cut biscuits, and set them on the stove.
“Well, I’ve been doing all the same things in this house for the last fifty-two years,” she grumbles, but I still hear affection in her voice. “I don’t see why that should change now that you’re here.”
I move to the cabinet and take down two plates. “Grandma, I’ve got two people in my fan club.” I point one of the plates at her. “You’re the president, and Annie’s the vice president. I can’t afford to lose either of you. So let me keep you from working yourself to the bone.”
Grandma Q gives me a simpering smile. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, love.”
After we’ve halfway filled what Grandma Quincy calls her “chipwood bushel basket” with okra, we wash and sort the yield, plus what she’s stocked in the fridge, into two piles. Anything shorter than Grandma’s index finger or my pinky gets chopped for the freezer. All of the longer pieces will be pickled.
The chopping and bagging goes quickly, but when Grandma transforms her kitchen into a makeshift cannery, I get the feeling we’ll be here awhile. I’m ordered to take down all the eight-ounce Mason jars from the upper cabinets while Grandma fills a stock pot and sets it on the stove to boil.
We’re about halfway through sterilizing the jars and lids when someone knocks on the kitchen door. My eyes dart to the Bakelite wall clock above the stove. As soon as I see it’s half-past eleven, I know exactly who it is.
What I’m unprepared for is how amazing she looks in yoga wear.
