Cold

The sky is a dull gray color. No shading. No highlighting. Kind of like the wisps of hair on Nonna's head. When I was younger, I thought the snow was some kind of magic that canceled school. Spending so much time taking care of Nonna has kind of crushed that outlook. Like the branches that fell from the ice storm last week and are still littering her yard. Ugh.

I grab my keys from the ignition with one hand and thread my fingers through the four or five plastic bags in the passenger seat with the other. My breath makes white cloud puffs….

“Puffs!” I groan and throw all my weight against the car door as it closes. “How could you forget the Puffs?” I drop the bags and run gloved hands down my face. They don’t provide warmth or comfort. A flake or two of snow lands on the black wool and vanishes in an instant, and I can almost hear Nonna's crackling voice.

“I don’t ask much.”

Yes you do.

“I just needed some tissues for my allergies.”

And cherry cough drops and caramel cake decaf coffee and regular-length size-two pads and six Cheese Danish pastries. Besides who has allergies in the dead of winter?

“But I understand, honey.” She’ll reach for my hand and when I give it to her, she’ll pat it and with a voice like sweet pickles, she’ll say. “You’re just so busy all the time. Running yourself ragged. It’s no wonder you forget me now and then.”

So.

Go inside and drop off the groceries and hope she doesn’t notice until I’m back tomorrow? Or go back now and get the stupid Puffs? I glance at my watch. She’ll be expecting me in ten minutes. Otherwise, I’ll get a gazillion phone calls.

Thank goodness the woman can’t text.

I tread lightly over the dusted steps leading up to the front door and leave imprints of my boots in the snow. 

It just started snowing. Probably not a good idea to go back anyway. I’ll drop these off and get home before it starts accumulating too bad. My roommate and I are due to have a Hallmark marathon.

I grab the Christmas wreath that still hangs on the door even though it’s mid-January. She never gets out of that recliner. Sagging old thing, all the design worn off the seat cushion. Funny how the more wrinkled Nonna gets the smoother her chair gets. I was the one who took down her Christmas tree and decorations and hauled them up to the attic while she sat there. She insisted on leaving that wreath, that she would get it. I’ll sneak it upstairs now, and she won’t even notice.

“Is that you, Gentry?” she croaks from the living room. I sigh, glancing at the doorway, where the linoleum changes to dated green carpet, and I can see the back of Nonna's pink chair. Regardless of how cute and vintage her log cabin looks on the outside, the inside screams “help, the 1970s won’t let go!” 

I peel off my gloves and place them on the counter tile, leaning the wreath against the lower wood cabinets.

“Yes, Nonna. I have your groceries.” Slipping out of my jacket and sliding the hat off my hair, I drop them both in a kitchen chair.

“Did you get the Puffs?”

My eyes snap shut, and my hands grip the countertop, frozen. “No, I’ll bring you some tomorrow when I stop by, okay?”

There is a long, empty pause.

“Sorry.” The word leaves my lips and vanishes into the air, just like, and with as much substance, as my breaths outside.

“It’s all right, honey.” 

Wait, what?

“You’re a busy girl.”

Oh, here it comes.

But she doesn’t say anything else; only silence hums through the house. I open the coffee and dump some grounds in the coffee maker, pulling down two, chilled mugs from the cabinet. Only two left. The green light blinks on the dishwasher, which means the cleaning lady must have already been by this morning. I open the dishwasher and breathe a contented sigh as the wave of steam warms my face and hands and turns my flat-ironed hair back to frizzy wave.

“Are you making coffee?”

“Yes, Nonna.” 

I always do.

“Take your time.”

I frown and lean against the counter for a moment before emptying the dishwasher, relishing the heat of the plates and cups. Once the coffee maker grumbles enough coffee for two, I fill our mugs and head to the living room. Nonna has a photo album open on her lap. I can tell they’re old pictures from the faded orange-ish tint. They’re small too. Little squares with white frames.

“Your dad was cute as a bug’s ear. Always was,” she says without smiling or looking up. I set her mug on a coaster—steam curling out of it in twisted ringlets—and sneak a glance at the album as I sit across from her. Haven’t looked at pictures of Dad, young or old, since I tore up the funeral program and burned it. 

The couch groans when I sit on it, and finally Nonna glances up at me. There are deep, purple circles under her eyes, like a half-eaten plum, and gray hair with patches of scalp peeking through. She looks really tired. Her shoulders are slumped a little more than normal and her hand rests on an empty tissue box. 

“So….” I clear my throat and wrap my hands around the mug, breathing in the thick smell of caramel. “Reminiscing, huh?”

It takes a lot not to look at the pictures, but I don’t feel like hurting today.

“Yes.” Nonna flips a page, flashing the bulging veins of her hands. I sip my coffee. She’s awfully quiet today. Usually she’s complaining about some neighbor or the most recent political whatever that I haven’t heard about…or care to hear about.

“Here.” She hands me the album that’s starting to crack on the binding and reaches for another. I just stare at the robin-egg blue of the cover with its gold trim, unable to open it, and hope she doesn’t notice.

“Go on.” She nods curtly and opens her own, tone suggesting I shouldn’t argue. That doesn’t stop me.

“Not…not today.” I set the book on the coffee table, trying to manage a small smile to warm the coolness between the two of us.

“Why not?” She’s pinned me with a harsh stare by the time I look back up.

“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to stay very long anyway…how was…?”

“That’s not the reason,” her voice has a thin layer of an irritated bite. I blink. “Your cheeks turn every shade of red when you lie.”

This time I can feel my face get hot.

“You don’t want to see your father.” Her tone is so accusing even in its softness that I can’t help but straighten.

Of course I want to see my Dad. But not like this. She makes it sound like I don’t care just because I don’t want to look at an album.

“I haven’t wanted anything more for the last two years.” There’s a chill in my words.

“Oh please.” She waves a withered hand and turns her head, the closest thing she can do to turning away. We don’t talk about Dad. Period. She knows I don’t. It’s too much to navigate my own hurt and her passive aggression.

I stand, setting my mug down on the coffee table and suddenly noticing how chilly it is. There’s no fire in the gas fireplace. She doesn’t even have the fire going on the TV like she normally does during the winter months.

“What happened to the heat?” I wrap my arms around myself and check the thermostat, which is completely dead.

“It stopped working.” She lets out a dry cough, for attention or from the chill, I can’t tell.

“Why didn’t you call me?” I huff, tapping the thermostat a couple of times before snatching two blankets from the hall closet. She waves another careless hand and gives me the cold shoulder.

“Nonna, I can’t fix these things if you don’t tell me about them.”

“I don’t care about the cold.”

“You’ll freeze to death.” I tuck the blanket around her, momentarily catching sight of a dark-haired little boy in the picture as I move the album onto her lap.

“Maybe that would be best for everyone.”

I glance heavenward. I don’t have the patience for this today.

“I’m only a burden. If Luke were still here, he’d do everything you’re doing and you could focus on school.”

But it isn’t that way. Dad isn't here.

And after he died, I needed someone to need me. Nonna doesn’t say anything else.

“I’ll call someone," I say.

“Don’t call someone. No sense fixing something what won’t matter soon anyway.”

“Nonna,” I moan.

“Don’t get started….” Her eyes flash. “I know that look. For once, I’m being reasonable. Don’t send someone to fix the heater. I don’t need it.”

“Your hands are frozen.” My fingers brush hers as I return the album.

“Let them freeze. Since when did you care so much about me anyway?”

I stand there, staring at her, letting go of the album in her lap.

“Since when have I….” I can barely get the words out, they’re so hot on my tongue. “What is your problem?”

Nonna looks at me coolly, like she’s been expecting this, like somehow I’ve lived up to her expectation and she’s disappointed. “What is my problem?” She matches my tone. “I’ve never had a problem. You’re the resentful one, Gentry.”

Resentful? So she’s noticed. About time. Keeping all that bottled up like a shaken soda was getting tiresome.

“Yeah, I am resentful, Nonna. You wanna know why? Because I do everything for you.” I take several steps back, ticking off a list on my fingers. “I get groceries, I fix meals for the freezer, I make doctor’s appointments and take you, I pick up medications, and I take your stupid cat to the vet, I take time out of studying and classes and spending time with my friends to sit with you, all so you can treat my like I’m not even your own granddaughter!” My chest heaves. It feels light, like someone’s lifted the refrigerator off of it. But Nonna's stare sends chills down my spine. Indignation would be better.

“Just because my son adopted you, doesn’t mean that I did.” The words pierce. I always knew she felt that way. But that doesn’t mean it’s not painful.

“I know.” I surprise myself with how calm my words sound. My hands are shaking. “You didn’t do a very good job hiding it.” 

“I didn’t try to hide it.” She pauses and runs a hand over the album. “I didn’t try to hide it at first.”

“And then you did?” I can’t help the snort. If she thinks her passive-aggressiveness somehow changed everything, it was just more aggravating. The victimization of herself. I guess I never realized all this bitterness. I turn back to the hallway to get some composure and find myself staring at a mosaic of pictures on the wall. My dad is in most of them. Looking at those pictures is easier than looking at Nonna right now. And I’m far enough away I can’t see them very well. I do, however, only spot myself twice.

“I wanted Luke to have his own children.” She is calm. Collected. Unemotional.

“He couldn’t, Nonna. Especially after Mom got cancer.”

“And at that point, they knew she was going to die. They shouldn’t have put any children in that situation.”

“She didn’t die for like nine years! She deserved to have a little happiness too. But you always wanted to rip it away from them.” 

Nonna doesn’t speak. “Perhaps I did. But it was only for their good.”

I roll my eyes and don’t care to hide it from her, but I still don’t turn around to face her, staring, unseeing at the pictures on the wall. “So you hated me.”

“At first.” Nonna's passive aggressiveness is gone. It hurts. “And then when Luke died….”

“I was all you had left. You were all I had left.” I finish for her, turning to face her now. “You didn’t have anyone else to do your dishes or pay your bills or set up appointments or keep you from being lonely. You didn’t love me. You needed me.”

Nonna doesn’t deny it. I won’t stay to listen to her pitiful excuses. If she even bothers to give them. I grab my cup and storm to the kitchen, dumping the remains of my coffee down the sink and dropping the mug with a clatter inside. The drawers grumble as I slide them open, pulling out the phone book and slapping it on the counter. My fingers brush over the names and businesses, finally finding “In Home Care.”

“Gentry,” she calls from the living room. I don’t answer, sliding my phone out of my pocket to dial the number, when I notice there is a voicemail from her doctor. 

“Hey, Gentry, just wanted to call and see how you were doing. I’m sure your grandmother’s already talked with you, but I wanted to give you a few more details in case she forgot.” I pull out a piece of paper, cradle the phone on my shoulder, half-listening, and jot down the “In Home Care” number so I can call on my way home. I drop the phone book back in the drawer. 

“I know it’s so hard to come to terms with this type of cancer.” I freeze. “If there’s anything else I can do to help make her comfortable, just give me a call.” 

Cancer? The phone falls into my hand, and I blink at it. She hadn’t told me.

“Gentry, please come back.” 

I know I shouldn’t feel relief. I don’t. Not really. Just shock. She’d always just seemed invincible. I don’t feel overwhelming sadness. I don’t feel the anger at her not telling me either. Numb, I walk back into the living room, holding the phone in my hand, mouth open a little like I’m going to be the first one to say something. I should. I need to.

She seems to know that I know. Her glare is gone. Her irritation is gone. Her loathing is gone.

“I’m dying,” is all she says.

I nod. 

She looks down at the album in her lap. The one person I had left in the world, as much as she irritated me, was going to leave me too. I stare at her. 

The wisps of gray hair on her head.

The sunken eyes and sagging cheeks under thick cut glasses.

The lips, which, as long as I remembered, had been turned down on either side.

The tiny shoulders and caved-in chest.

The wrinkled hands and bony arms and legs and swollen feet.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. I’ve never heard the words in Nonna's voice before.

“For what?”

She reaches for my hand. I don’t offer mine to her, just standing there, but she manages to take mine in hers, which is like a skeleton, skin draped over bone. It’s so cold. “For wasting time.”

We needed each other. But it’s too late now. I pull my hand away. It’s too late.

Without another word, I turn and head back to the kitchen. Once again, I pull out the phone book and jot down a number, then crumple the “In Home Care” note and toss it in the trash. I thread my fingers through my gloves, pull on my hat, and button my coat and push open the door.

“I’ll call someone to fix the heater.”