Although Grandmother Emma sat and listened to him patiently. I could see her eyes moving constantly from him to me. It hadn't been that long since she had seen me, but I sensed that she was interested in any changes. Actually, her long, studied looking at me gave me a creepy feeling. I began to wonder about myself. Was my precocious puberty making me grow and mature even faster than any of us thought, even Dr. Dell'Acqua? Would I wake up one morning and look like a fully blossomed teenage Girl even though I was only seven?
"That's very interesting. Ian," she finally interrupted. "I'm sure you have more to say on the subject, but I'd also like to hear what your sister has been doing."
"We went horseback riding today," I told her. She looked absolutely shocked. "Today? Your mother took you two today?"
"Yes," Ian said. "We had reservations. When you make a reservation, you have an obligation to appear. The stable might not be able to replace us."
"Well, that sense of responsibility is very admirable, Ian, I'm sure, but you weren't exactly sailing on calm waters today," she said.
Ian smirked and then turned away to look out the window.
Grandmother Emma returned her attention to me. "How are you feeling, Jordan?"
"Okay," I said.
"No problems with appetite, nausea, bowel movements, anything like that?"
"It's not symptomatic of her condition," Ian muttered, without looking at her.
"I was referring to the possible side effects of her medication," Grandmother Emma said sternly.
Ian didn't speak or move. She was right, of course. He had given me the list of possible side effects.
"No, Grandmother," I said. "None of that has happened to me."
"Good. Let's hope it all goes smoothly and we put an end to this irregularity," she said. "I would hope you would have a normal spring, summer, fall, and winter in your life," she added.
That turned Ian around. Her comparison of the stages of human development to the four seasons interested him.
"Where would you place yourself now. Grandmother?" he asked her.
She actually laughed or really smiled and shook. "From the way things are going, I'd call it my winter of discontent. Ian, but I expect it will return to just winter soon."
I had no idea what she meant exactly, but Ian seemed to not only understand her, but appreciate her. He, too, nearly smiled.
"I must say," she went on, gazing, at the scenery that flew by as we traveled, "it's very lush up here this year. There must have been lots of rain."
"The average rainfall for the Pocono Mountains is four inches for April and they had nearly ten," Ian said.
"Is that so?" She stared at him a moment and then, to my surprise and I'm sure Ian's, she smiled. It was a warm, friendly smile. too, something we rarely saw printed on her otherwise firm face. "Your grandfather Blake was a weather fanatic, too. First thing out of his mouth in the morning was 'What's the weather today?' One would have thought he was a farmer. The weather had little or nothing to do with his work, but if we had an unusual amount of rain or snow or the temperatures went too far in one direction or another, he took it to be a betrayal, a broken promise, and ran on and on about it all morning. He absolutely hated it when weathermen got it wrong and he would not be beyond calling the stations to bawl them out. He thought everything in his world should do what it was expected or designed to do."
I didn't want to interrupt her. I had never heard so much about my grandfather from her before and had a hunger to learn more, but Ian was annoyed.
"I am not a weather fanatic, Grandmother," Ian said. "I'm merely aware of what goes on around me."
Her musing came to an abrupt end. The softness in her face dissipated like smoke. "No, you're not. I imagine," she said. "Actually, you're not at all like your grandfather, Ian."
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a complaint and neither was Ian. He turned back to the window and for the next half hour or so, no one spoke. Grandmother Emma closed her eves and rested and while her eyes were closed. I was able to study her because I had rarely, if ever, come upon her sleeping in a chair. She always acted as if being tired was the same as having to go to the bathroom. You didn't sleep in public either. She would immediately excuse herself and go to her bedroom.
She did say once that she thought Grandfather Blake's falling asleep in a chair watching television and then snoring, was the most vulgar and impolite thing imaginable, especially if there were other than family members present.
Despite the harshness in her voice and the almost mechanical perfection in her appearance and her manners, there was something soft and feminine just below the surface. I thought as I studied her face. She had to have been very pretty when she was younger or my Grandfather, who we were often told had an eye for the ladies, wouldn't have wanted her to be his wife. From the few occasions I had looked at her photographs and seen pictures of her sister, my great-aunt Francis, I knew that they had both inherited nice features from their parents.
Even now, her skin was smooth and her complexion, relatively unchanged by makeup, made her appear younger than she was, especially when I saw her with some of her friends, women about her age, who even with their heavy makeup and surgical implants and corrections, still looked like
degenerating mannequins. Their voices cracked and their posture was poor as well.
There was nothing feeble about Grandmother Emma, despite her tiny hands and diminutive features. She didn't tremble or warble. She had no problem raising her voice, which always had a firmness. According to Daddy, her grip on anything was steady and true enough to allow her to be a brain surgeon.