The War with Grandma

by Robert Kimmel Smith

  “Unhand me!” she yelled as I dragged her.

  “No,” I said.

  “Let me go right now.”

  My foot felt the mud and I said, “It’s shallow here,” and she started flailing and pushing away from me and so I let her go.

  She stood up and fell back down and stood up again.

  “Megan Amelia Stokes. I cannot believe you just did that. I can’t. You had no right.”

  “Grandma, we’re making taffy.”

  “I don’t give a flying fig about taffy. Those were my recipes. Those were my mother’s recipes. Her handwriting. My grandmother’s handwriting. I let your dad borrow them under strict instructions to keep them safe. And you just, you you you…”

  Her face was steaming mad and her fists were clenched, and I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Grandma. I didn’t mean…”

  She cut me off. “No way. No way. I do not want to hear one more word out of you. NOT ONE WORD. You want a war, young lady? You got a war!”

  And then she stormed into the trees.

  * * *

  —

  Meg 2?, Grandma 3

  37

  Enemy Territory

  I stood on the shore, my body trembling.

  What had I done?

  I had never seen Grandma so mad.

  Ever.

  I waded in and swam out into the lake.

  I dove down but I couldn’t see anything. I swam around and dove again and again.

  I was about to give up when over in a tangle of branches and leaves, I saw a flash of pink.

  The binder!

  I swam as hard as I could, wiping away tears as I went. I got it!

  I tried to swim back holding it over my head, but it was soaked and recipes were falling out of the page protectors. I flipped over on my back and put the binder on my belly and kicked back to shore.

  On the beach I assessed the damage.

  Some of the recipes were lost causes. Others were blurry. Most weren’t too bad. They were wet but just around the edges.

  Why had I done it? Why?

  I walked home, holding the binder like a baby.

  When I got back to the house, Mom and Dad were standing on the front porch waiting for me.

  I felt like a worm.

  “Did you really throw the recipes in the lake?” Mom said.

  I stopped in the driveway, my heart sinking into the dirt.

  I couldn’t talk. I really couldn’t.

  Dad took the binder from me and leafed through the pages, water pouring out of some of the plastic holders. He shook his head in disgust and set the binder on the railing.

  “Garbage now,” he said.

  “No, it’s not,” I said.

  “It is. It’s ruined.”

  “It was an accident,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

  “An accident?”

  I shook my head. “Not an accident. But kind of,” I said. “She surprised me, and I threw it.”

  “Your Grandma Sally surprised you?”

  I wiped more tears. “Yeah. I mean, she did.”

  I tried to explain. I tried to say how Grandma was being the worst and she wasn’t listening, and she snuck up on me and I saved her. I saved her! I saved her from drowning!

  “I am disappointed in you,” Dad said. “These are family treasures you destroyed.”

  “Recipes are treasures?”

  “Yes. Recipes are treasures. And you know they’re important to me.”

  I swallowed hard. “Dad, they’re all ripped and faded. You can barely read them.”

  “They were not yours to take, Meg,” Dad said.

  Mom sighed and sat down on the steps. “This competition was a bad idea. A bad, bad, bad idea.”

  “What? No, it wasn’t.”

  “I think your mom is right, Meg. You two are at each other’s throats.”

  My dad said that. My dad. The most competitive strawberry-loving guy I know. “Maybe we should stop this whole thing.”

  I shook my head. “No, Dad. No. She’s, she’s just, she, she’s—” I couldn’t think of the word. I couldn’t think of what she was because she was so many things and I was so sad and mad and cold and embarrassed and soggy. “She’s so hard.”

  Dad stared at me.

  Then he said, “Meg, I don’t think you realize what you’ve done.”

  “Dad. I’m sorry.”

  But he didn’t care. He turned and went inside.

  I sat next to Mom. “I made a mistake,” I said. She pulled me close and I put my wet head on her shoulder. I was tired and sunburned and sore and awful.

  “Do you think Dad’s going to make us quit the competition?” I asked.

  “Probably not,” Mom said.

  We sat like that for a long time. Daisy the cat watched me from the bushes; she was on Grandma’s side too.

  Mom stood up. “You coming in?”

  I nodded.

  * * *

  —

  Grandma was in the shower. She was not singing like she usually does.

  I stood in the hallway and waited for her to come out.

  Hattie was fake reading and stealing looks at me.

  “Please stop,” I said.

  “What?” she said back.

  “Don’t look at me.”

  “I can’t look at you?”

  “No. You can’t.”

  “We got you a shake.”

  “I don’t want a shake and stop looking at me.”

  “Sheesh,” she said.

  But I was serious. I didn’t want her to look at me. I didn’t want anyone to look at me.

  When Grandma came out, she walked right past me in a weird rainbow bathrobe and her hair in a towel and she went into my room.

  “Grandma,” I said, but she closed the door right in my face!

  And on the door was a sign that said STAY OUT OF ENEMY TERRITORY.

  Enemy territory? That was my room!

  I knocked. “Grandma,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I knocked again. “Grandma.”

  Nothing.

  Hattie said, “Let me try.”

  “Grandma, can I come in?” she said. “It’s me, Hattie.”

  The door opened a crack. “Grandma?” Hattie said.

  Grandma said, “Only friendlies are allowed.”

  Then Hattie had to like squish inside the room through the barely open door! And Grandma slammed it once she was in!

  I knocked again. “Hey! Can I come in?”

  Nothing.

  “Grandma? I at least need my pajamas.”

  The door opened a crack and my pajamas came flying out.

  “And my…”

  My pillow sailed out too.

  And that was it. I was locked out of my own room. My own room declared enemy territory! I wondered how Dad would feel about that!

  In fact, I went straight up to Dad’s office, where he was writing.

  “She kicked me out.”

  “She what?” he said, looking over the screen at me.

  “I’m out,” I said, plopping into the rocking chair. “She has taken over my room just like what happened to you.”

  Dad sighed. “I don’t blame her.”

  “Dad! Don’t you see? She’s STOLEN MY ROOM!”

  He looked at me. “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

  I stared at him. “That’s it? That’s what you have to say?”

  “I’m sorry, Megs. This is not my fight to fight. You took it to the next level. You escalated it.”

  I could’ve screamed. I mean really. I couldn’t believe it.

  He leaned back
in his chair. “If you want to win this competition, you have to work with your grandma.”

  I closed my eyes. “I know, Dad, but now she’s not even acknowledging my existence.”

  “I think she might need some time. I think I might need some time.”

  Was he that mad at me?

  I slowly stood up. “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said.

  I went outside to sit by the binder, all beat down, wet and falling apart. Kind of like me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to it.

  “It’s fine. I still love you,” it said.

  That didn’t really happen but I wish it had. I wish someone had said that. I opened the binder and started pulling the recipes out of the plastic one by one and laid them out on the porch.

  When I was done, I took them inside and carefully hung them on the drying rack in the laundry area with clothespins. By the time I was done, the entire rack was filled with old colorful index cards. It almost looked pretty. I wanted to tell Grandma what I was doing. I wanted her to come see.

  But I knew she wouldn’t. She was too mad at me.

  I ended up sleeping on the uncomfortable couch in the front room that night. It’s even worse than my wood floor, and I was surrounded by my grandma’s costume boxes, which were all staring at me, mocking my pain.

  How did this all go so bad so fast?

  Just a few days ago, I had been happy, hopeful.

  I was going to be in the Strawberry Days Ambassador competition and get Leaf bikes and drink lemonade all day long.

  I stared at a brown spot on the ceiling where we’d had a leak during a rainstorm the summer before. I felt like that spot. I ruined everything.

  38

  Sea Witch

  When I woke up the next morning, the house was nearly empty.

  I walked into the kitchen and Hattie was eating cereal and listening to an audiobook.

  Mom was at work. Dad was at work.

  “Where’s Grandma?”

  Hattie took off her headphones. “What?”

  “Grandma?”

  “I don’t know. She was gone in her truck when I woke up.” My heart dropped to my stomach and I ran to our bedroom.

  Her suitcases were still there.

  I leaned against the wall in relief.

  We had to be at the festival at three and I had no idea where Grandma was or what she was thinking or what was going to happen but at least her CPAP machine was sitting on the bed.

  I went to check on the recipes.

  They were dry and stiff, but you could still read most of them.

  My plan was working.

  I carefully put each recipe in my old science binder I had from school that was in excellent condition. I typed up new copies of the recipes and put those in the binder too, in case someone had a hard time reading the originals. I also wrote up all the ruined recipes I could remember, starting with the Strawberry Pie.

  Strawberry Pie

  1 pie crust (could be graham cracker)

  1 12-oz. package frozen strawberries (save juice!) or 1½ cups fresh berries

  1 3-oz. package lemon Jell-O

  1 pint vanilla ice cream

  Thaw the strawberries and strain them for their juice. Combine the juice with water for 1¼ cups juice and water combined and bring to a boil on the stove. Add in the lemon Jell-O and mix until it dissolves. Mix in the ice cream and, once all melted, pour into a heatproof bowl. Leave to thicken for several hours. Add the strawberries and mix before pouring into the pie crust to cool and set. Serve with whipped cream.

  Then I made a table of contents, an allergy warning, and an index for the back.

  “What’s that?” Hattie asked, coming into the office where I was working. I was drawing a portrait of Grandma for the cover.

  “It’s Grandma,” I said, and held it up.

  “That’s pretty good,” she said. “I think you got the shape of her hair perfect.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.” I’d worked hard on that.

  When it was all done, I put the binder on my bedside table so Grandma wouldn’t miss it.

  Then I waited.

  While Hattie played with her ponies and listened to books and did regular summer things, I waited.

  I waited outside by the driveway.

  I waited in the front room looking out the window.

  I waited on my bed, staring at the strawberry dream board.

  I called her.

  She didn’t answer.

  I called Lin.

  She did answer, and I told her everything. She said it was understandable that I confiscated the recipe binder. “Strawberry shortcake would not cut it at this level of competition.”

  “Right?” I said.

  “For sure.” Then she said, “But that was pretty brutal to throw her recipes in the lake.”

  At lunchtime I made one of Grandma’s gross green smoothies for lunch. Like eating her food might summon her home.

  It didn’t work.

  I wrote down the recipe for taffy that I remembered from making it with Trudy.

  I even put on the Ursula costume to see what I’d look like.

  Hattie put on Ariel.

  “These are awesome,” she said as we both looked in the mirror. The seashells were way too big for Hattie, but the tail did look pretty good. The tentacles of my costume were ripped, just like my heart.

  “She wouldn’t just not show up, right?” I said to Hattie.

  She looked at me in the mirror; the red wig made her look old and wise. “Did it actually sink?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, but how far did it go? Past the beaver dam?”

  “Way past.”

  “Whoa.”

  I was an evil sea witch.

  An hour before we needed to leave, I was freaking out.

  I called Dad. “She’s not here and the challenge starts at three.”

  “There’s still plenty of time, Meg. I’m sure she’ll show up.”

  “What if she’s quitting?”

  “Grandma never quits anything.”

  That was true. She sure didn’t quit bossing me around. “Maybe I should start walking,” I said.

  “It’s up to you,” Dad said. “It’s pretty hot out there.”

  I looked outside. The trees. The dirt. The horses. Silent. Brown.

  Every summer was like this.

  I needed those Leaf bikes. No matter what had happened with Grandma, I needed them.

  “I’m going,” I said to Dad.

  I hung up, then filled a backpack with water, snacks, and the taffy recipe. “Hattie,” I said. “We’re walking.”

  39

  Grandma Sally Gets Serious

  When we passed the horses and the haunted farmhouse, we heard it.

  The rumbling of the monster truck.

  We both stopped.

  “Is it her?” Hattie asked. We looked down the street. We could see a dot approaching. A very loud dot.

  As it got closer and closer, my heart grew bigger and bigger.

  It was Grandma. Dad was right. She wasn’t quitting. She was here with plenty of time before the challenge started.

  She started honking about five feet from us and it was very loud and very unnecessary.

  “Wow!” Hattie yelled, covering her ears.

  Grandma stopped the truck on the side of the road and for the first time in my life, I felt nervous to see her. I should have brought the binder.

  When we climbed up and opened the door, music was blasting. BLASTING. It was so loud; I thought my eardrums might burst. “What are you doing, Grandma?!” I yelled.

  And then I go
t a good look at her.

  My Grandma Sally, in a complete chef outfit.

  She had on a big old chef hat, a white jacket, checkered pants, red tennis shoes, and a name tag that said SOUS SALLY. Were there chef clothes in those costume boxes?

  “Grandma, you look amazing!” Hattie yelled as we climbed in the back seat.

  “Thank you!” Grandma yelled back.

  “What were you doing all day?” I yelled.

  She adjusted the volume to even louder, IGNORING ME, and pulled onto the road. Hattie and I looked at each other.

  You try, I mouthed to Hattie.

  She nodded.

  “Grandma!” she shouted. “What have you been doing all day?”

  “I can’t hear you!” Grandma shouted back.

  “What! Were! You! Doing! All! Day?!” I was actually pretty impressed with how loud Hattie could scream.

  Grandma turned down the music.

  “Well, Hattie, I had a great day. I went to the library and read up on war. Did you know I’m in a war, Hattie?”

  Hattie nodded. “Uh, kind of.”

  “Oh yes. I am. And I have never been in a war before. My dad was in a war, as you’ll remember, and he hated it. He hated war and thought it should be avoided at all costs. In fact, he was in two wars. One was much worse than the other.” She glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “I also hate war very, very much, and my personal philosophy is things should be worked out, people should be compassionate and forgive each other. However, with war, one or both sides are not willing to cooperate, and that is how I ended up here.”

  I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Grandma,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  She kept talking to Hattie.

  “I’m not familiar with warfare so I felt like I should do some research.” She held up The Art of War! And there was a stack of other books. “I went to the library and found some great resources. I also went to a place called Archibald’s and picked an appropriate outfit for the competition today. I didn’t want to rummage around at the house while you girls slept in.”

  That was where she got the cooking clothes. Lewis Archibald owned an antique and thrift shop and he had all kinds of things. Fancy plates, necklaces, wigs, blankets, books, statues, dolls, and apparently chef outfits.