My Better Life
I’d smiled and whispered, “Go to sleep.”
And she did. Only minutes after she drifted off, she migrated over the bed, wrapped herself around me like the morning glory vine twisting around the base of the oak tree in the back yard, and she hasn’t let go since.
I listen to her soft breathing, feel the warmth of her in my arms, smell her sweet orange scent, look around the small, cluttered bedroom, with creaky old furniture and chipped paint, and decide, yes, this is what happiness feels like. This right here.
* * *
Grandma Allwright’shouse is two miles up the mountain, an old square log cabin that looks like it was tossed down in the middle of a waterfall of boulders. The morning shadows fall over the rocks and make them look like weary sentinels surrounding a fort. Somehow, the thicker forest and the nearness to the river makes the air smell like uncharted wilderness. At the edge of her cabin there’s a vegetable patch full of beans, corn, and squash circling the rocks, eating up any tillable soil.
Her home is exactly as I imagined it would be, a rough-hewn, carved-out-of-the-earth, rustic place. The exterior looks just like she does, a bare-bones essential home in rocky, inhospitable terrain. But the inside of her house, maybe that’s like her too.
I glance around the kitchen that she reluctantly invited Tom, Diedre and me into. It’s stacked full of kitsch, rooster salt and pepper shakers, cross-stitched chair pads, I’m sitting on a cross-stitched pot that says simmer down. There are dozens of retro kitchen gadgets on the counters and on the kitchen shelves. There’s a pile of corn that she’s in the middle of shucking. Glossy ears with fat kernels rest in one metal pail, and light yellow corn silk and dark green husks in another.
“Make yourself useful,” she says, gesturing at the ears of corn. “I’m canning today.”
Then Grandma Allwright frowns at me, Tom and Diedre all sitting at her kitchen table. “I’ll bet you want tea.”
Diedre is in the middle of hiding a yawn behind her hand, but when tea is mentioned she perks up. “You’re the best, Granny.”
Tom perches in the chair next to Diedre, and when she smiles he watches Diedre like a kid staring out the classroom window, wishing he was outside, playing at the playground.
“Thank you.” I nod at Grandma Allwright and then grab an ear of corn.
She narrows her eyes and watches me for a moment to make sure I know how to shuck. Apparently, I do. I pull down the husk. It makes a squeaky creaky noise, and a burst of sweet, sugary corn smell fans out. I strip off the silk. It’s soft under my fingers. I’m careful not to leave any strands behind. Finally, Grandma Allwright is satisfied. She grunts approval and then turns to the counter.
Diedre and Tom don’t bother to reach for the corn. Diedre’s nails are long and painted with sequins and stripes. I don’t think shucking is in her future. Now that Tom has gotten over looking at Diedre, he’s staring down at his thick, calloused hands.
Gran walks over and sets four glasses on the table with a hard click. They’re glass tumblers with swirls of color and I realize immediately that Jamie made them. Gran pours iced tea into each one, the ice cubes kaplunking against the glass.
When she’s done she plops into the last wooden chair and narrows her eyes on me. “I’ve made you tea. Now what do you want?”
I smile. You can say one thing for Grandma Allwright, she’s definitely consistent. She hasn’t liked me from the moment I walked out of the hospital. I imagine she didn’t like me before that, and she won’t like me long after this. But that’s fine, I don’t need her to like me, I just need her help.
“I asked you all here because we have something in common.”
Grandma snorts. “Not likely.” She points at the pail. “Reach me that corn.”
I hand her a cob and she quickly yanks the husk like she’s imagining it’s my head, or another bit of anatomy.
Oh well.
“What do you mean?” Diedre asks, eyeing me skeptically.
Tom stays silent, which is what I expected.
Diedre picks up her glass and takes a swallow of the iced tea.
“I mean we all love Jamie.”
Diedre spits her iced tea, coughing on it and spraying it back into her glass. She coughs and chokes and Tom stands and hits her on the back, his face flushed.
Gran doesn’t notice. She just stares at me and then snaps the ear of corn in her hand, right in half. She holds the two mangled ends and looks at me like she’s about to beat me over the head with them.
“Ice…sorry…choked on ice cube…” Diedre coughs and Tom keeps hitting her back. She smacks her hands at him. “Stop…stop whacking me. I’m fine.”
Her eyes water and a bit of eye makeup runs, making her look like a startled raccoon. Tom sits back down in the chair next to her, his face flaming beneath his beard. Diedre scowls at him.
“Strong, aren’t you? Your pats are like a bear pounding on a log trying to find grubs.”