Grandma's House

When we get to grandma’s house, mom steps out of the still-running car to open my door. A wave of summer heat pushes against me, but I hop into it anyway and turn back to help Owen. He scoots along the back seat towards me, reaching out a small, clammy hand when he’s close enough. Using my arm for balance, he slides his body down the side of the seat until his toes touch the ground. Then, Owen releases me immediately to run into grandma’s arms, blue sandals slap-slapping the length of the concrete porch. She must have seen us from the bay window.

Mom reaches over me to grab the red backpack Owen forgot, and sets it beside me. Bending down, she sweeps me into a hug. “I’ll see you after school,” she murmurs, and squeezes my shoulders one last time. Then she stands up to her full height and calls over her shoulder, “Bye Owen!”

But he’s too distracted in grandma’s arms to notice. Reaching out stubby fingers, he leans towards the nearest wind chime, mesmerized by the tinkling noise it’s making in the soft breeze.

“Wind chime,” grandma says slowly to him.

“Chime,” he parrots back, and grandma and I laugh. It’s probably too big of a word for a four-year-old.

“Bye sweetie,” mom says to me before tucking herself back into the driver’s seat. I move onto the porch, and watch her reverse down the warm pebbled driveway. I keep watching the white station wagon as it goes all the way down the street and turns the corner to disappear from sight.

Then I hoist Owen’s backpack onto my shoulder, and turn towards where grandma is standing, but they’ve already gone inside. I trot down the length of the porch, eager to catch up. You never know what you’ll find inside grandma’s house.

Today it’s fresh strawberries piled brightly in a bowl next to a plastic tupperware cube that’s half full of sugar. Owen is already clambering into a chair, so I climb onto the one beside him, and pluck a strawberry from the top. He makes a sound of protest, upset he didn’t get the first one. But instead of reaching for one right away, he watches intently while I dip the tip into the sugar, creating a pink-tinged valley, and take a bite. Only then does he snag his own strawberry and mimics me—holding tight to the leaves while he pushes it down, widening our sugar valley.

The two of us take turns dipping strawberries into sugar while grandma washes dishes. My eyes stray from her jerky movements up the front of the flat wooden cabinets. She recently painted them an olive green, but there’s something not quite right about the tone.

The continuous shelf on top of the cabinets holds a number of unreachable treasures. Next to a rusting watering can sits a miniature sewing machine with a large horseshoe leaning against it. My gaze follows the line of knickknacks, snagging on a broken cuckoo clock, and a black rotary phone.

The glaring voice of a radio host snaps my attention to the small black radio nailed to the underside of the last cabinet. The pattern of green lines tells me it’s 9:06am. A new song is starting, and I recognize it as one of my favorites. “I like this song,” I say, and grandma turns from the sink to smile at me, “I like it too.”

She turns back to the soapy water, and I sing along between bites of sugar-crusted strawberries. It’s a song that only ever plays at grandma’s house.

I love you always forever

Near or far, closer together

As I sing, I look out the windows that rest above the dining table’s far side that is pushed against the wall. Grandma’s house is taller in the back than it is in the front. A hill slopes down on either side of the house so that the basement has enough room for a door into the backyard. I can barely see it from here, but I can see into the backyards of other people.

The one that touches hers has a high wooden fence, and inside I watch two large black dogs— “Okay!”

Grandma’s exclamation shocks me back to the kitchen. “Let’s find something to do,” she says, striding into the living room. The two of us follow, quickly abandoning the empty bowl and pink sugar crumbs scattered across the table.

“Here, Isabelle,” grandma says to me, “let’s practice your reading.” She sits on the Persian rug next to a stack of activities, and hands me a worn copy of Little House on the Prairie. I open it to last week’s bookmark, and join her on the floor, resting my back on the solid wood coffee table.

Owen stands beside me, waiting for his assignment. “And for you,” grandma looks up at him, “let’s practice your colors.” He stands in quiet confusion for a moment before realizing she’s holding the crayon box. Then he claps his hands, and drops to his knees so hard I can feel it through the floor.

He slaps a hand on top of the coloring book and drags it towards him. Owen opens the book to an ocean scene, complete with a shark that’s not too scary swimming through a shipwreck. He gets to work filling in most of the shark with the dark blue crayon. This is a mistake, but he hates any attempts at help, so I stay quiet.

After we’re settled, grandma gets up and makes herself busy wiping off the table. While she’s back in the kitchen, I let myself get distracted by the buttery sunlight drifting in through the front window. Grandma has so many beautiful green plants, but they cover most of the front window. Still, I bask in the soft beams of light that make it past the leaves while listening to another familiar song wafting in from around the corner. I close my eyes for just a moment and relax into the moment.

I think an hour or two passes before grandma says we can go play with the toys in the back bedrooms. Owen leaps up, already anticipating the war he’ll start with the army of little green soldiers. I place my bookmark carefully against the spine of the book, and close it slowly. The pages are so yellow I’m afraid they’ll rip.

Grandma sits on the dark red couch behind the coffee table to put on her white tennis shoes. “I’m going outside for a bit to water the plants. Watch your brother, I’ll be right back.” She braces her hands on her knees to help herself stand, then walks out the side door without turning back.

I trail down the long hallway, listening to the sound of drawers being opened as Owen searches for the right toys. Nothing seems like it’s breaking, so I go into the guest bathroom. While I sit on the toilet to pee, I study the small dish of potpourri next to my face on the sink. “Po-per-ee,” I enunciate to myself, and deeply inhale the flowery cinnamon smell.

After washing my hands, I quickly use the soft guest towel even though we’re really not supposed to. I don’t think grandma will notice though. When I open the door, Owen’s latest battle is echoing against the pale pink walls. I decide to leave him alone for now, and walk straight across the hall into what used to be my mom and aunt’s room. It’s small, with only one white bed tucked against the corner.

I admire the retired stuffed animals carefully arranged against embroidered pillows, stroking the clumpy fur of an old orange dog. Then I move across the room to the white desk, and reach into the cabinets above it. There’s a small box of aunt Lana’s forgotten jewelry. I set it on the desk and search for small rings that might fit me.

As I dig through tarnished silver necklaces and earrings, a familiar creak comes from the other room. The rocking horse.

I sigh. Grandma doesn’t let Owen get on it by himself. The smooth wooden horse is still too tall for him to balance on, and she worries he’ll fall. I think he’ll be fine, but I go check on him anyway.

Sure enough, he’s already sitting astride the thing, with a proud smile pushing against plump cheeks. “Look, Issy!” he shouts, using my old nickname, even though he can say ‘Isabelle’ now. “I’m riding a horse!”

“I know, but you aren’t supposed to. You have to come down now,” I try to persuade him, but now he’s figured out how to rock it.

“No, I want to stay,” he replies, and I sigh again.

“Get down before you fall,” I warn him.

Owen ignores me, trying to rock faster, but loses his balance. Before I can react, he falls off, and hits the side of his head on the hardwood floor, just missing the small floral rug.

His answering wail is like a siren as it bellows from his throat. I’m just about to take a step to comfort him before something smacks the back of my head. I stumble sideways into the folding closet door. It holds me up, and my hand flies to the back of my skull.

“Oh Isabelle, how could you?” Grandma’s voice is vicious and tight. She’s already stormed past me and scoop up Owen off the floor. Once she’s checked for blood, grandma whirls toward me. “You know he’s not allowed on the rocking horse, how could you let him get up there?”

I’m so confused and hurt. I open my mouth to explain, but she doesn’t want an explanation; she’s so angry at Owen’s pain. He’s still crying, so she picks him up and shoves past me out the door.

I stand there in silent shock, the back of my head throbbing where she hit me. Tears start to fill my eyes, but I press the heels of my hands into them, hard. I can’t let her know that it made me cry. So I stand there and wait for the tears to go away, trying to breathe normally past the lump in my throat.

I stare blankly at the two-toned beige walls and try not to think of anything, then glance at the solid maroon dresser to my right. I study the ugly green knobs until my throat clears, then I step into the hallway.

The fake tiles are cold under my bare feet, but I don’t move them. From the kitchen, I hear grandma comforting Owen, offering him a cookie to soothe his tears. There’s a sound of rustling, and suddenly she yells, “Snack!” so I can hear.

But I don't want a snack. I want to go home.