My grandmother was like a lamp. Her very presence would warm a room and invite you to sit next to her on the green arm chair. When my grandmother was around it always meant time spent together, sweet remarks, and always a cup of tea.
Once she passed away, it felt like her curtains would never see light again. Her living room had all of the love sucked out of it. The bedroom she once shared with her husband of fifty years shrunk until all that remained was the undone bed. She had a few tea bags left before she would have had to go to the store to replenish them. Her brush still held strands of her hair, she had dirty dishes in the sink. Her jewelry still held her fingerprints. But she had disappeared.
It happened on a Wednesday. She had gone to bed one night and never got up the next morning. My mother expected me to stay home the rest of the week from school. My grandmother and I were close, that was no secret.
She lived down the street from us, close enough where I could bike to her before I got my license. Her house still sits without her. Its gardens in the front are still in bloom, despite no one watering them for some time now. Yellow flowers. The house itself has mustard yellow siding that is peeling and screaming to be repainted. The house is so big and tall that no one ever took the time to do it. It’s been standing for a hundred years and has probably been repainted only a few times.
The house has two stories, but my grandmother only inhabited the first floor. Such a big space for such a small woman. Due to the size of the house, my grandmother would rarely get to give it a deep clean. There were many spaces in between things and up high that never got dusted. They were riddled with daddy-long-leg spiders who took the opportunity of a dark small space uncalled for. I never understood how she could live with so many creepy spiders inhabiting her home. The bathroom was the place they seemed to like the best. I couldn’t help but feel itchy after noticing them dangling over me while I washed my hands. I felt so vulnerable like they were going to drop on me.
I wondered how many more had spawned since we hadn’t gotten a chance to clean out the house yet. My mother was taking her time, after learning the house was left to me. It was a strange feeling to feel like my grandmother loved me more than her own daughter. I knew that wasn’t it, although I don’t think my mother is so sure. Still, the guilt sat with me. That’s how I feel when I bike past the house now. I see her yellow flowers and I feel guilt, and then all of a sudden I’m sitting in her living room on the green chair crocheting with her. She’s laughing (the show we are watching is funny), and she’s making a hat, while I’m working on a throw blanket.
“That’s coming along quite beautifully,” she would mention every twenty minutes or so in a different sort of way. I haven’t finished the blanket yet. I probably won’t.
Anyways, I didn’t stay home from school. There is only a week until we are out for the summer, and I didn’t want to fail anything. I didn’t feel like I needed to take time anyways, I only felt guilty after all, and that was no one’s fault but my own. Despite my mother’s growing resentment towards me, she followed close behind me like a small dog. I think she would climb into my backpack if she was small enough.
Each morning once she heard my alarm sound she would crack my door open, only one eye visible.
“Coffee?” she would say, before pushing the door open a crack more and presenting a steaming mug. Today, the mug is one I made when I was twelve. It’s uneven and warped, painted a barn-red.
“Thank you, mom.” My voice cracks and I sit up. This is her cue to walk in. Once she sets the mug on my side table, she steps back and smiles kindly.
“I’ve been thinking about a little trip we could take.” she says sweetly. I love my mother. She’s beautiful. Her hair is a soft red, her cheeks full of life. Today, she is wearing an emerald green wool sweater and linen pants. Unlike most redheads I am aware of, she doesn’t have freckles covering her face. Just a few tasteful specks on her nose, enough to highlight her blue eyes.
“What’s the trip?”
“It’s something I did a long time ago, maybe twenty years now. I thought maybe we could go on a canoeing trip together, once school gets out. Maybe that weekend right after?” Truthfully, the last place I want to be the first weekend of summer break is in a canoe. The more I contemplate it, the more I’m on board, though. Maybe this would mend the weird awkwardness between my mother and I. Maybe then she will want to clean out grandmother’s house.
“Okay, sure. Where?”
“Allagash stream. It’s really nice this time of year. Secluded, too; we might see some herons!”
My mother has always loved nature. She was unlike my grandmother that way, who would watch from the window as my grandfather puttered in the vegetable garden or fed the birds. My grandmother preferred books and a comfortable chair.
“That sounds nice,” I respond politely. My mother takes this as her cue to leave my room. Despite our conversation, she shuts the door harshley behind her. My guilt returns, and I reach to take my first sip of coffee.
The last day of school worked its way slowly by. As three o’clock approached, I felt a deep feeling of nerves bubble up in my stomach. It felt like a loss of comfort. There was no place for me to be once summer began. I would become my grandmother after today: an aimless spirit floating through my days. How terrible.
I promised my mother I would leave for her trip tomorrow morning. I had my bag packed: clothes I didn’t care for in expectation that they would get dirty, socks, hiking boots, bug spray. My mother was beyond excited. I was not. As hard as it was to get yanked away from routine, it was even harder to think about being yanked into the middle of nowhere for a couple days with my mother who resented me.
For days I had tried to convince myself that this was a good idea. It would help our relationship, be good time out in the sun, be relaxing, and convince my mother to help me clean my grandmother’s house. All positive things, but my mind was stuck. How deeply I wished for another week of school. And then another, and another…
My classroom started to feel very hot. My algebra quiz was staring at me, eyes wide. I glanced once more up at the clock. It was screaming at me. I don’t want to go on this trip. It’s too much to handle after everything that has already happened. My mother is unstable, I’m unstable…nothing good could come of that. How easy it would be to start the summer off simple, and maybe I could begin cleaning Grandmother’s house on my own. I would start with watering the flowers, then work my way to the spider’s, then the big stuff once my mother came around to the idea. It would be okay, a trip wasn’t necessary to help things along.
Once again the clock ticked. Only a second had gone by since I last looked up at it. I could feel my classmates breath on my back. I could hear their graphite scrape against the fibers of the paper in front of them. My hair started to feel heavy on my head. I closed my eyes in hopes to find peace in the darkness. And then, it was 3 o’clock, and the bell pounded against my skull.
The morning birds were giggling outside of my window. It was early, earlier than I was used to. My door creaked open as it usually did, my mother’s blue eye peeking through.
“I’m glad to see you’re up!” she announced before opening the door wider. “Are you excited?”
“I’m hungry,” I responded. After noticing my mother’s smile fade, I grinned regretfully. “And yes, I’m excited.” I concluded. The birds were still laughing.
“I’ll make eggs.” My mother said, her figure slipping away down the hall.
I made my bed carefully and thoughtfully. I assumed my future self would be pleased to come home to a neat space, a place where my thoughts could quiet and everything was back in order. My packed bag sat next to the door. It gleamed at me. Its zippers waved and the straps were excited for adventure. I left it behind as I walked towards the smell of eggs.
“What time are we leaving?” I asked as I approached the kitchen.
“After breakfast,” my mother responded. Her back was turned towards me. I sat down at the large dining table. It was placed under the big window that overlooked the front yard. Birch trees played with the birds outside. Butterflies gossiped with the vegetable garden.
“Here you are,” My mother placed my breakfast in front of me. Eggs and fruit salad. Simple yet effective. She sat across from me, eyeing her meal for a moment before picking up her fork and indulging. She looked fresh this morning. Her red hair was pulled back with a bandana. She had dressed herself in a purple tank top and hiking shorts.
She seemed to replicate herself perfectly when she had me. I have the same hair, the same complexion. We gain the same look on our face when we are angry. We cry the same. Our hair gets frizzy in the humidity and our knees get dry easily. When we laugh our nose scrunches and our cheeks apple. I am her only child. Her perfect carbon copy. As similar as we were, my mother has never related to me. She doesn’t know my mind like she knows my temper, or my dry skin, or my humid-feared hair. That has always been okay. Today it felt less okay.