A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  I tried to smooth my features instead of staring at her in horror. I needed to know these things. No wonder the family thought I was an incompetent spokesperson for her. We couldn't continue this way for much longer if her safety was at risk. At the moment, though, I needed to ignore that she refused to tell me the truth. Another conversation for another time. When there weren't any witnesses.

  She acquiesced to her pants leg being rolled up so the damage could be assessed. She winced with each turn of the fabric but remained stoic. A sea of black, blue, and green greeted us. Gram had been right—these marks would not be gone before the wedding. The only question now was whether she'd bare them as a badge of courage in a skirt or cover them up with pants.

  Carol went through the range of motion exercises and while Gram had some aches and pains, Carol didn't believe a hip fracture was indicated. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Gram's eyes drooped, a combination of potent drugs and the late hour. Carol received approval from the doctor by phone to increase Gram's pain medication regimen for the next few days and promptly gave Gram the next dose. She would likely be stiff and sore for a while. The nurse also told us she'd have a cane delivered on Monday, as well as have Justin follow up.

  Tired as she was, Gram resisted the idea of the cane. But, as Carol reminded her, safety came first and as long as she wanted to live independently, she'd have to make some adjustments. I liked Carol.

  As we finished up, Carol received a phone call with instructions for her next visit. I had no idea how she had the energy to do her job. She made a few notations on scrap paper and then straightened up.

  “If anything changes before Monday morning, give us a call back. I'd keep an eye on her the next couple of days. She reminds me of myself, stubborn and not used to taking orders.”

  I laughed at this accurate description. “I can hole up here for the rest of the weekend and then make sure family checks in on her regularly. Someone's always stopping by anyway.”

  I slumped against the door for a moment after sending Carol on her way. A cane. More pain medication. Gram barely eating. I didn't know what else lay around the corner. I couldn't control any of it. My head swam and my eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

  I tucked Gram into her recliner, then threw a blanket and pillow on the couch across from her. She slept peacefully, as if today had been like any other. I coveted her bliss. Instead, I lay awake on the couch for the next few hours, sensitive to Gram's every sound and movement.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I cursed as I raced around Gram's house picking up my keys, phone, and the detritus I'd acquired during my suburban weekend. Gram had, of course, protested that she didn't need anyone to stay with her. I persuaded her to see this as more of a grandmother-granddaughter bonding experience and less as me babysitting her. In order for her to truly buy it, I wound up buying fancy pajamas for both of us at a local boutique and then a few other odds and ends. It turned out to be a rather fun, yet expensive, day.

  I'd planned on staying this morning to ensure Gram stayed off her feet. However, she declared she would not miss church. Furthermore, she decided I would not miss my standing brunch date with Reagan and summoned Elaine as her chauffeur instead. While she'd consented to the family knowing about her tumble, she did not want to be treated as an invalid. Our bonding time effectively ended, though not for any lack of sentiment. Gram expressed appreciation for my efforts and promised she would take better care of herself. We would see.

  After watching Gram teeter down the sidewalk to Elaine's car—heaven forbid either of us assist her— I sprang into action. If I left now, I'd have enough time to swing home and change into my own clothes. Gram and I were about the same size but we had decidedly different tastes.

  I felt scattered on the drive home, running through details and checklists repeatedly. I'd originally delegated the weekend to catching up on work. I could probably take care of a few things today, even if Sunday was a day for rest. As I strode through my apartment and made preparations, I instructed myself to calm down. Over-caffeinated and under-rested, I couldn't stunt my mind's relentless cycling.

  Reagan's profile greeted me once I stepped in to the diner, the same one we’d frequented ever since he’d shared about Katie. My frets ceased at the first glimpse of that man. Sometimes the heart needs what it needs and I would not argue with anything that could occupy my mind for a while.

  I stood on my tiptoes so I could kiss him, lingering a little longer than was restaurant-appropriate. I’d missed him. He smiled wide after I pulled back and I responded in kind.

  “You hanging in there?” he asked, searching my eyes for an honest answer.

  “I need some sleep before I can answer that.” I gave a small shrug. “I'll be fine. I can only help Gram as much as she'll let me. And apparently, she's not letting me do much today. Feisty, stubborn woman.”

  “I still want to meet this grandmother of yours,” he reminded me. “She sounds like someone I know.” He raised his eyebrows at me and I laughed.

  The idea of introducing Reagan to my family made me panic. I couldn't control the outcome or the judgments or the inevitable defensiveness. All that mattered was I liked him and life was better when he was around. Family be damned. But Gram was in a different category. I made a decision then and there.

  “Well,” I began. “There is my brother's wedding. I don't know if you're ready to meet the whole gang, but I'd love to have you with me.”

  “Are you sure you're ready for me to meet everyone?” he countered. His expression was confident, relaxed. He would follow my lead on this.

  I quickly debated the pros and cons again. He deserved to know what he was getting himself into. More than that, it would be nice to have back up for a day. Maybe everyone would leave me alone for this one occasion. That is, if he didn't run away screaming.

  I nodded firmly, warming up to the idea. “I'm ready. Gram wants to meet you and really, hers is the only opinion that matters. She doesn't impress easily though, so get ready.”

  That last part was a small lie. Gram could put on her best Southern sweet face and easily charm any visitor. Many a person let their guard down. They'd walk away convinced they'd made a favorable impression but she saw through artifice while keeping her poker face intact. Reagan would be himself, I had no doubt. Gram would love him for it.

  “Don't you worry about me. It sounds like we have a date.”

  An ebullience rose within because of this plan. A date to my younger brother's wedding. I didn't dare imagine this when Scott had announced his engagement; it was an unexpected thrill. It wasn’t that I needed a date but it would be nice to have Reagan by my side. When our food arrived, I ate with unusual gusto. Maybe things were looking up after all.

  * * *

  “Do you want to hang out for a while or do you need to crash?” Reagan asked as we left the diner, leading me out the door toward his car. A subtle hint toward the appropriate answer and hard to resist.

  “I could be talked into hanging out,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him. “Do you mind if we swing by the gallery first? I need to pick up a few files to work on later this afternoon.” I caught his expression. “It's nothing that will take long.” He cocked his eyebrow. “Fine. One file. I don't plan on working long.”

  “This is supposed to be your day off, Liv. No work, just play.”

  “Like you never paint on the weekend or even all night?” I retorted.

  Reagan opened his mouth as if to respond before shutting it again. “Caught me. I’m the last person to lecture you about workaholism. But even I know you need to relax. I'm sure you had fun with your grandmother but that sounded more stressful than anything else.”

  His concern melted me. “I relaxed by having brunch with you but if that’s not enough, I will allow you to give me a back rub.” I arched an eyebrow back at him. “Now come on. Gallery first, back rub second, happy Olivia third.”

  He crushed me toward his chest before lifting me so my
feet dangled in the air as we twirled around the parking lot. The sun fell hot on our backs. Laughter flew out of me, released and wild. He set me back on the ground and pressed his forehead to mine before giving me a slow, sweet kiss. It seemed Happy Olivia was his first priority. Mission accomplished.

  The ride to the gallery was pleasant. Reagan took my mind off of Gram, hospice, and the threat of breaking limbs. But not enough to change my mind about stopping at the gallery. I knew I'd feel more at ease approaching the week ahead if I took care of at least one of the projects on my plate.

  He pulled through the back alley and came to a stop outside the door. “Okay if I come in with you?”

  “Sure.” I hopped out of the car, pleased he wanted to spend this time with me. I didn't want to be one of those couples that couldn't stand to be apart for even an errand but today it was endearing.

  The keys jingled as I opened the door and flipped on lights. I entered the code on the security panel, then took in the jumble of boxes and odds and ends that stood between me and my office. What a mess. I rarely used the back entry. The maintenance and installation staff “organized” the storage area as best suited their needs. I made a mental note to clear out the area sometime this week. It was probably a fire hazard.

  In fact, the whole gallery could stand for some belated spring cleaning, even my office. Something rubbed in my memory.

  Reagan and I continued walking in that direction. He jokingly compared the state of the storage area to his home. I started to suggest he finally finish the rest of his unpacking when it hit me.

  My office that I'd left so hastily Friday night. Nothing put away. Nothing.

  Oh dear God. I halted and pivoted toward Reagan. “Hey, why don't you wander for a few minutes? I'll grab what I need and let you know when I'm ready to go.” I prayed he would take the suggestion and go.

  “That's fi—” he stopped, his blue eyes narrowed as he glanced at my expression. I tried to adopt the most innocent look I could muster. “Wait a minute. What are you trying to hide? You don’t want me to know how messy your office is? This I've gotta see.”

  Before I could react, he swiped the keys out of my hand and bounded toward the door. I ran after him, heart thudding. A nervous laugh tumbled out as I tried to figure out how to stop this from happening. My hands were useless as Reagan shielded the keys with his body and attempted to find the right one.

  “Reagan, please, don't. I'm not hiding anything.” I searched for a plausible excuse, anything that would keep him away from the contents of my office. “I don't want to feel rushed and, really, this is a boring errand. You can look at your competition. It's been a while since you graced the gallery with your presence.”

  Those could have been fighting words, a dig at how our relationship had begun at the gallery but now stayed separate. I didn't care how he took any of it. I wanted him to go away. Why hadn't I realized any of this before he asked to come in?

  Reagan looked at me but let it slide, still believing this would lead to something good.

  “Olivia, what's the big deal? I’ll only tease you a little bit.” His smile was wide and trusting.

  The lock clicked and the door opened. I tried to wedge myself in front of him, as if my smaller frame had a chance at holding him back. The dim lighting obscured my furrowed brow, tense shoulders, and clenched fists. He interpreted my panic as a clue he was right that something good awaited him, as if I'd hidden a present within these walls. I had to stop him. There was no alternative.

  “No, seriously, Reagan. There’s nothing here,” I pleaded with him.

  A curse escaped me as the light flipped on and there sat the easel and canvas. Exposed.

  Reagan's laugh cut short, stunned into silence. I darted glances between him and the canvas, afraid of his response. That familiar old sense of revulsion crawled over me and I shuddered at the memories. What could I say for damage control?

  “What—did you paint this?” Reagan drew nearer to the canvas without waiting for a response. He peered at brush strokes, in full artist mode. My voice left me. I nodded my head, but he had his back to me and couldn’t see. I held my breath in agony. There was no escaping his indictment. However, I couldn't admit ownership.

  Breathe, I instructed myself. This will be over soon. Just breathe. My palms were clammy as my heart raced.

  Reagan turned around and I flinched. I took a deep breath and willed myself not to freak out. Whatever he had to say, I would listen and I would not cry. He would let me down gently, I guessed. It was unfortunate that I hadn't driven myself here. I wouldn't be in this predicament, for one. For another, I'd have to walk home. Sitting next to Reagan after hearing his criticism was out of the question.

  “Olivia, this is incredible,” he exclaimed. Incredible? I lifted puzzled eyes toward him.

  He continued. “How have you not told me about this?” He started walking toward the door. “You're showing your work here, right? I want to see your finished pieces.”

  I leaped in front of him, hands planted on his chest to keep him from going any further. “Reagan, stop. You don't have to lie to me.” I preferred honest assessment to honeyed lies. At least, I thought I did. Right now my sole thought consisted of getting out of here with what remained of my dignity.

  “I wouldn't lie to you. It's still in progress but it's good, Liv. You're good.” His voice conveyed awe and respect, the opposite of what I'd expected. It couldn't be true.

  I looked at the canvas and tried to see it through his eyes. Yes, that looked like Gram and yes, that looked like me. It wasn't horrible, I conceded. But display-worthy? Hardly.

  “Please promise me you won't ever bring this up again. I do this for me; it’s a hobby. I don't show my work to people and no one else needs to know about it.” I held his arm, still bracing him from going any further, and begged him to understand what I couldn't explain.

  “No one needs to know about it? You can't be serious.” He didn't get it. The laughter in his eyes, the joy at his discovery apparent.

  “I am serious. I'm not an artist. I have my work and I have my life. Painting does not play a part anymore,” I snapped. Don't make me say the words, I screamed inside. Don't make me go back there.

  Now Reagan tensed and his expression became sober. “Except painting does play a part because I'm looking at something you created. You're always talking about how artists need to share their talent and how creativity is a gift. Are you the exception to the rule?”

  “I told you I'm not an artist, Reagan. I don't want to talk about this. Can we please go?” I tried to tug his arm now. I forced a smile on the off chance our afternoon could be salvaged.

  Reagan stood firm, a battle of emotions fanning across his face. I held my breath, waiting for his decision. If he pressed me further, we would not be able to withstand the aftermath. I was not ready to say goodbye to him.

  His shoulders relaxed and his smile reappeared. “Sure, let's go. I won't take back what I said though, Liv. You are talented. I don't understand why you won't admit that to yourself. You don't have to tell me right now but we will talk at some point.”

  I exhaled. I would let him think the conversation would occur down the line.

  “Thank you.” We headed back out the way we came, all thoughts of work abandoned. Nothing needed to change. Not yet. Not ever.

  * * *

  Clouds greeted us the morning of Scott and Paige's wedding. I'd slept over at Mom's house the night before to appease her. She'd said she didn't want to worry about me arriving on time. As if I'd be late to my own brother's wedding.

  The old house announced Mom's stirrings shortly after five o’clock. The glow of the clock read “too early.” I determined I would stay in bed until the last possible minute. Mom's wedding planning made me itchy and I didn't want to get caught in the crossfire. Best to sleep and rest, I decided and closed my eyes.

  I couldn't escape the noise. The creak of the stairs and floorboards notified me of Mom's presence. Down in the
kitchen, the clatter of breakfast preparations interrupted my slumber. A quiet lull allowed me to drift off, until another round of noise began. What the hell was she doing down there? I burrowed further into the covers on my childhood twin bed, my hopes pinned to a sheet and comforter. By six-thirty, I gave up on tossing and turning.

  I shuffled down the stairs toward Mom's movements. I grumbled internally, ready to let her bear the full brunt of my grumpiness. The mature side of me argued she hadn't woken me on purpose. Or had she? Mom looked decidedly chipper for such an inhumane hour.

  “Good, you're up,” Mom said, barely glancing from the spreadsheet before her. “I'm going over my checklist one more time. Did you look outside yet? It's too cloudy. What if it rains? We have the tent outside but—”

  “Mom,” I said firmly, cutting off her ramble. “It's going to be sunny and in the seventies. It's not going to rain. Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “I slept like a rock,” she said, and I believed her. The woman fell asleep with ease, something I wished I'd inherited. I glanced out the window and noted the aforementioned clouds but it was too soon to make a weather forecast. Some days we had to believe the Chicago meteorologists knew what they were doing.

  “You can't possibly have anything else to do before you get to Gram's house. Why on earth did you get up so early?” I mumbled against the glass.

  Mom's laughter sounded like a bark. “If you ever get married, Olivia, you'll understand how many last-minute details there are.” The dig hit its mark. I turned back around and saw Mom make a few notations on her precious papers.

  “I'm going to go get ready now,” she said and looked at me. “You should think about doing the same. I want to leave here no later than seven-thirty.”

  “The wedding isn't until two,” I moaned. Lord have mercy. I should have stayed at my place.

  “And there's still plenty to do. Your grandmother might need help,” Mom prompted. Gram had reverted to her independent ways since falling. She conceded it took a little longer to get dressed but maintained she didn't need any extra assistance. The hospice nurse agreed with her so long as Gram used the cane. No one believed she used it as much as she said she did.