by K.N. Lee
My self-criticizing thoughts were broken by a sound that sparked my hopes. Glasses knocked against each other, ringing from the cellar that I forgot existed. Again my tired body was forced to me; lifting to my feet and walking to the door in the kitchen that led to down into the old brick crypt. When I was younger my mother told me she kept old bones and witchy things down there, it took four years for Nana to get me down there without inducing tears, but it still gave me the creeps.
I froze; my hand gripping the doorknob with so much pressure that I felt my fingers would turn to dust. What if she is hurt, or dead, or… I stopped my thoughts and searched to regain the hope that had overcome me with the chimes of the moving glass from beneath and when I heard the glasses knocking around again, I focused on the sound, opened the door with one last push, and ran down the stairs.
3
The pounding of my heart slowed to a more even rhythm at the sight of her kneeling down on the cellar floor digging through some old crates. It was hard to believe she was nearly 70 years old. I was envious of her. My grandmother was determined to stay as fit as possible. She was thin with the body of a runner. Even in her old age she was more active than I was, taking part in charity runs, triathlons and working with Habitat for Humanity building homes for the less fortunate. She was a woman to be awed.
My body was crashing, going into shock as my heart rate slowed. The natural energy boost that came from the adrenaline rush produced by my fear had begun to fade. She was safe; there was no need for panic. Now my body sounded its’ alarm. I had pushed myself too far. I stumbled, and reached for the railing by the steps, that groaned under my weight.
“Oh,” my grandmother turned toward me as my vision began to blur, the world around me became shaded at the edges. “Alexa, what are you doing here?” She pulled herself up with wide eyes and rushed to my side. That was the last thing I remembered before everything went black. As the world closed in, I forced the pain that spread through my limbs, out of my mind.
When consciousness returned with the feeling of lightheadedness, the dark basement was longer my surroundings, instead my grandmother’s bed cradled my stiff body. The only thing visible from my position was all the dust collectors that lined a tall shelving unit. There were dozens of them; little figurines and ceramic pieces covered every flat surface of the room, I remembered them well. My grandmother was a real pack rat, but she swore that every piece told a story, taught a lesson, and held a deeper meaning for her. As a child, I would pick up random pieces and ask her to tell me their story. It never failed. Every story was different and magically intriguing, even if I didn’t completely believe them.
I hadn’t been inside my grandmother’s home for nearly three years. Even after my parents died, she always came to me; it was never the other way around. Taking in the scent of her, feeling the warmth of her bed and hearing the soft hum as she approached the bedroom door, I felt guilty. Too stiff to move, the only option was to wait for her to come. Movement wasn’t going to be a welcomed activity anyway. As it was, the pull and push of the air that entered my lungs was painful enough. That regret I mentioned earlier, yeah, it was kicking in.
My grandmother entered the room carrying a small tray in her hands. The aroma of green tea and honey followed her and filled the room. I watched her carefully as she walked; every moment was graceful and effortless, even in the simplest of things. Even in sitting the tray down she looked refined, as if she had practiced the movement for years: the study of place setting. Sometimes it looked like she was floating rather than walking. The ground was not deserving of touching her feet.
“Finally, her eyes are open,” she said smiling at me. My attempt to return the expression failed. It didn't seem possible for the muscles in my face to hurt so much.
“You’re okay,” my voice croak as she approached the bed. “I thought something was wrong.” My mind flooded with images of my rush to make it to her, to save her from nothing at all, my agony as I searched for her, with thoughts of standing over her grave, and then falling and apparently passing out.
“Well, why on earth would you think that?” She smiled around the ageless voice and pretended she couldn’t hear the panic in my mine.
“You didn’t call!” I shouted, or did what was as close to a shout as my body would allow. I frowned, and for a moment questioned my own attitude. Once again, the concern was there, why had the lack of a phone call had gotten to me so much? I was furious with her and I couldn’t comprehend why. She was okay, not hurt or worse. I should have been happy or at least relieved, but I wasn’t. Why?
I’d never felt that way towards her before, or anyone at all. There was a fire inside me, this overwhelming intensity that filled my mind. My heart started to race with the return of that all too familiar, yet strange pulling in the pit of my stomach, the one I’d run away from. The fear that usually accompanied the tugging sensation came back with a resilient force and smacked at the side of my head, shaking me to my core. I looked at her, and waited for her to answer me.
With an intentional lack of speed, she finished her approach to the bed. I doubt I had ever seen her move so leisurely before. She always moved with purpose even if was in that airy way, it was never a wasted effort. The decision to take her time did not help my rage. If anything, it only infuriated me more.
“Now, calm down, Alexa,” she looked at me cool as ever. Her eyes were as calm as her voice. In her hand she held a damp towel which she used to dab my forehead. It wasn’t until the cool moisture touched me that I realized how hot I was. She leaned back to look me in the eye. “Better?”
I rolled my eyes, staring at the shelf behind her. She was doing it again. She knew what was happening with me. This weird thing, pulling at my insides that was trying to rip me apart, yet she acted like she had no idea. She always did. She kept on pretending even when I stopped asking her for an explanation.
“I didn’t call, because I assumed you no longer wanted me to.” Her words were steady, but I didn’t believe her. There was something more that she was not telling me.
It was a lie and we both knew it! She had never compromised for anyone before. Even after my mother was gone, she still pressed me about ‘black magic’, although she hated when I called it that. She always held onto the hope that it was my mother who rejected her ways with such conviction, and that my heart would eventually become open to the possibilities.
“The real reason?” I asked, staring her directly in the eye. As soon as I did, I immediately regretted it. Her deep chocolate brown eyes always snatched me into them. I felt as though all thoughts escaped my mind and I was calm. For a split second, I had almost forgotten about the inexplicable rage building inside me. I struggled to pull my gaze from hers.
She blinked long and hard, deliberately releasing me from their pull. I was free. I fixed my eyes on the quilt she had placed over my legs. It was my favorite and she knew it. I always envied her nimble fingers and the way she crocheted the most amazing designs and patterns I had ever seen. As athletic as I was, my fingers were clumsy, and I more than often dropped things. I never tried to learn how to crochet. I always figured it would be a pointless attempt.
“Well,” she sighed “I am leaving.” She stared off into space. Her face was now blank and void of all emotion as if she hadn’t said anything at all.
“What do you mean…leaving?” I nearly choked on the word. My anger was momentarily silenced, and the fear of a lonely abyss slowly began to wrap itself around me again.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and handed me a cup of warm tea. “This will help you to relax.” She said nodding her head at my rigid fingers that were clawing at the quilt. “I have to go dear. I wish I could explain further, but I cannot. My time here with you is over. I only wish I had been able to…” she trailed off; locked in her own mind. The features of her face were frozen in the moment.
I wanted her to finish explaining what could possibly be so important that she had to leave me. The words wouldn’t
come, all I could do was stare at her, and try to etch the image of her face on the surface of mind. There weren’t many pictures of her, how would I remember? Her hair was long and black. The straight length almost touched the bed even as she sat straight up. There was only the slightest hint of gray sprinkled throughout it. Her honey tinted skin the same as my mother’s, the same as my own. It was then that I noticed how much she looked like my mother; how much they shared. They could have been twins. I started to imagine that this is what my mother would have come to look like if she had lived, but those thoughts were to painful to continue. To have to think of losing my mom and grandmother both, I could not handle that. I took a deep breath, inhaling her and noting the levels of her scent. The tinges of wildflower, mint, and incense were cataloged along with my mother’s pancakes. I refused to let her go.
“Able to what?” anxious, I had to know what was happening in her mind.
“Nothing…it’s too late now, anyway. Just relax dear. Everything will be fine,” her words were confusingly mechanical, almost robotic, and sounded as though she was reading from a script. This was not my grandmother speaking, but why would she lie? What could she be hiding? She smiled a weary smile, one I had never seen the muscles of her face curve to create. I was hit again with the heat of fury.
“You know, I am getting really tired of your riddles,” I growled through my teeth. What was this evil coming from within me? My thoughts were ones of concern, was she hurt, ill? How could I help? Instead, the ridiculous response slipped from between my lips and despite the obvious challenges, I was up on my feet. Anger blocked out the pain in my body, as I stormed out the door. She mumbled something under her breath as I walked away, it was too low to really make any sense of it. Knowing her it was likely some warning about my health and wellbeing, either way, I didn't care.
I slammed the front door behind me so hard it shook the thin walls surrounding it. The whimsical garden was lost on me, my only concern was getting away from her. The engine of my old car sputtered to life and without checking to see if she’d followed me, I threw it in gear drove away. I had no idea where I was going; home was not an option. That would be the first place she would go if she decided it was worth the effort to come after me. No, I had to get away from her. It was what she wanted, to be away from me, to leave me alone.
4
I drove around for hours going nowhere in particular; my only thought was to outrun the pain; not the physical, but the emotional. It was difficult, feeling like I was so far outside of myself, and barely able to distinguish my own face as I glanced in the rearview mirror. There was something strange about my eyes, the color seemed different. My effort to pinpoint the change failed because I couldn’t seem to remember what my true eye color was. I shut them tight and shook my head; hurling away the thought. How could I forget my own eye color? It was a ridiculous thought that only worried me more. The internal debate began, would be beneficial to turn the car around, go back, and face her? Would that stop me from losing my mind? Part of me wanted to see her, that part begged me to turn around and do everything in my power to stop her from leaving. What if I never saw her again? The other part, still boiling with unexplained anger, knew on a deeper level that if I went back, I wouldn’t like what I would find.
This new side of myself was completely unrecognizable; it was reckless and scary. I drove without looking at the road, much faster than the posted speed limit. I often shut my eyes just trying to untangle the web inside my mind. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, to stop my hands from shaking, and to focus on something other than my rampant thoughts. The car stopped in a location that was familiar, one that hadn’t been visited in a long time, but the recollection was instant. Parked at the edge of Lake Michigan, I questioned how I got there. Hell, it hadn’t even registered to me that the car was moving down Lake Shore Drive. How did I manage to navigate the dangerously curvy road without crashing? Even when I didn’t have my eyes shut, the road ahead had not been my focal point.
The small park that was just barely within my range of view across the lot brought a smile to my face. This was the backdrop to many Saturday afternoons as a child with my mother and father. It was exactly how I recalled it, frozen in time, yet everything surrounding it looked different. The buildings that touched the sky were all new and improved. However, it was still the same quiet place I loved coming to. It had the same metal swing set and jungle gym, only with a fresh coat of red and blue paint. The sprinklers where I ran in my bathing suit, because I was too afraid to go into the lake, the sandbox where I spent countless hours perfecting my sand castles, the path where I rode my bike and scraped my knee countless times, they were all the same.
I pictured him, my father, strong yet loving hands pushed me on the swing. A high pitched laughter rang out from my mouth as my mother stood in front of us making crazy faces and funny noises. Behind my mother was the picnic she’d carefully laid out on the grass as my father and I ran around playing tag. I could hear his voice echoing in my mind. He said nothing in particular, but it was his voice. The tenor of it wrapped around me tightly; a blanket of security.
The anxiety melted away with the images of my family and left me calm. I rolled the windows down to allow the cool air coming off the lake to brush against my face, as I gazed out at the little playground. It chilled my skin and reached deeper than the surface; calming the fires that raged within me. Finally at ease, I remained in my car. My eyes focused on the waves in the water, making me feel as if I would float away momentarily. My chest rose and fell with the tide and the car filled with the scent of the water. As I further relax into myself, I thought about my mom. Her smile, her laugh, her eyes were floating in the air in front of mine. Tears fell from my eyes but they were not inspired by sorrow.
Were the tears for my mother, my father, or for me? Assuming the wind was the cause for the salty streaks that fell down my face, I closed my eyes, but they continued; pushed forward by a source deep within me. The emotion there was something I didn’t understand, but I accepted it. I let it consume me because it felt better than trying to deny it. I stopped trying to figure out what was causing my tears, and rolled my windows up to a crack just to keep the air in the car cool. Ignoring the empty feeling that seemed to only instigate my tears, I closed my eyes, and let the sound of the waves carry me away.
~A~
I was at peace, my mind away from the world, and all the problems waiting for me. This moment of mental harmony was annoyingly interrupted by a tapping; an irritating, relentless, tapping against the window. I tried to ignore it but I was unable to block the aggravation from my mind. I reluctantly opened my eyes, but was forced to quickly shut them. There was a bright light pointed directly at my face. I groaned and held my hand up to shield myself from the visual assault.
“Are you okay, Miss?” The park ranger asked, tapping his finger against my window again. His voice was low and shaky; indicating that he was someone much older.
“Yeah,” I struggled to say. My throat was bone dry and the word croaked from within me. I put my hand in front of my eyes, to block out the blinding light.
“It’s after midnight, Miss, the park is closed. I’m going to have to ask you to move along,” he pulled down the light affording me my first glimpse of his face. He was an older man of at least 60 with scraggly, gray hair in his eyebrows. He wore a security uniform, blue and baggy over his frail frame. I wondered why he was still working at his age, which lead me back to thoughts of my grandmother and her vow to stay active right up until the day she died. An empowering yet disheartening thought.
I winced as I recalled the trip that got me to my lakeside getaway, and the force that drove me to this place; my safety zone. It was the shock on her face as I threw that ridiculous temper tantrum and stormed out of her home that was highlighted in my memory.
I had to get to her. I had to apologize. If she was going to leave I wouldn’t have our last moment together be one with me acting so irrationall
y. I turned the key in the ignition and started the car. The older man was staring at me with worry in his eyes. I smiled and waved as I drove away; not wanting to even think about why he was looking at me like that. I knew I must have looked bad, and was surprised he didn't try to drug test me. There were so many assumptions to be made, drunken drug addict, runaway, etc. I hoped he wasn’t calling the police.
As I drove away my intention was to go to her house to face her and get this embarrassing ordeal over with. It would mean crawling back to her and pleading for forgiveness. I looked at the clock in my dashboard. It was nearly one in the morning. I had slept in my car for an entire day! My sad show of remorse would have to wait until tomorrow; I tried not to be too happy with this realization. Hey, I wasn’t just being a coward, she was old, active or not, it meant she would be sleeping, and it would be rude to show up at such a late hour. It was simply a bonus that gave me an excuse to put off what was sure to be a horribly awkward conversation.
How was I supposed to explain my actions? Even worse, how could I justify my rage? I couldn’t even make sense of it in my own head. As hard as I tried to make it all fit, it just didn’t. Nothing about what happened was right. It was like I was a different person. I had never blown up on anyone like that; especially not her. Even with her quirky superstitions and weird artifacts lying all over her house, my grandmother was the most loving and most accepting woman I knew. Thinking of her face now, all I felt was happiness and relief because she was okay which is what should have mattered to me before. She was healthy and alive and that’s what I wanted.