A Memory of Winifred

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. I look around the room hoping something sparks recognition. My eye catches on a framed photo on the mantel of the fireplace. I hoist myself up, feeling my knees crack and my hip begin to throb.

Shuffling over the carpet, I see a family in the photo. At the center, sitting on a chair is me. I have a broad grin on my face. On my left is a couple—a scrawny sort of man with wired-rimmed glasses and a thick cardigan and a smiling woman with a toddler on her hip. The younger woman has the same upturned brown eyes as me. For a second all I can do is stare at her, but then her face turns blurry in my mind. It’s as if I have been blocked access to her image.  I turn my eyes to the right where an older gentleman stands with a hand interlaced with mine resting on my shoulder. A pang in my heart forces me to look away and I slam the frame back on the mantel. This is not right. I don’t know those strangers in the photo. None of this is real. This is a trick.

I look around the room again hoping to find a way to escape. Peering through the kitchen, I can make out a door next to the fridge that seems to lead to a garden. I walk as fast as I can despite the ache in all my bones.

 “I’ve been kidnapped,” I think, “I’ve been hoodwinked,” I reach out my hand to twist the knob that’s just within reach when I hear knocking on wood, then keys begin turning in a lock; the metal clicking seems amplified, ringing throughout my whole body. I don’t wait as I swing the door wide. I take the half step down and rush as much as I can even as pain shoots up my leg from the small step. In an instant, the hope building in my chest comes crumbling down as I am faced with a tall fence surrounding the small yard. No way out.

                 “Hello?” I hear a voice from inside, “Where are you?” the woman’s voice should sound concerned, but all I can hear is a taunt as if she knows my efforts are futile.

                 A young woman appears at the door and inches her way toward me. She is wearing a smile, but I can recognize fake pleasantries anywhere.

                 “Hi Grandma,” she says in a cheery tone with that same smile plastered on her face. I know better. I know that she’s luring me in with sweet bait.

                 The young woman takes one step closer, just barely an inch. I take as big of a step as my hips can manage behind me. We both know that one way or another I’ll hit the fence. My mind races to find any escape route.

                 “Get away from me,” I shout my frustrations at her throwing my arm in an arc warding her off. She winces even though I didn’t touch her.

                 “Winnie,” she uses my name. How did she get my name? “My name is Fred,” she continues “I am here to help,”

                 “Fred? That’s not a name a girl should have,” I insult her not knowing what else to do, “Stay back! I’m serious,” I cry again.

                 “I was named after my grandmother, Winifred,” she pauses as if waiting for me to understand her.

“I don’t know your grandma, girl! Just get away,” my gripes land on deaf ears as Fred comes closer again. I swing my arm in another arc with as much force as my frail arms can manage. Fred yelps taking a step back with her hand on her cheek. She takes her hand away revealing a cut from my nail beginning to prickle with blood.

“Winnie,” she says, and it sounds like something is stuck in her throat. “If you come inside, I will leave, I promise,” her voice wobbles and her eyes are glassy.

A wave of guilt crashes over me tearing my anger and fear down and turning it into shame. I refuse to let her cry, and certainly not because of me. Before a tear can fall from her doe brown eyes, I begin to walk back toward the house. Fred walks far faster ahead of me, and soon she disappears inside.

When I come in from the garden, someone is in my kitchen, a young woman I don’t recognize.

“Who are you?” I shout, panic swelling within me, “What are you doing in my house?”

“My name is Fred,” she says and when she turns to look at me, I see a small scratch that has begun to bleed, “I’m here to help with anything you need,” she has a smile on, but it doesn’t match her eyes.

“I don’t need any help,” I grumble as I walk to my recliner.

“I know you don’t,” she says as she follows me into the living room, “I just like to help when I can,” she offers me her arm to brace myself while I ease my way into my seat.

“I’m going to go get you some water and your medicine, okay? I’ll be back in a second,” before I have a chance to oppose, she has already walked away. I close my eyes for a second and breathe.

“Okay,” a voice sounds from behind me, “Here are your pills you need to take today,” she says setting down a little bowl with pills of different shapes, sizes, and colors.

“Freddie girl!” I say to my granddaughter, “Your mother didn’t tell me you were coming today, what a lovely surprise.”

“Oh, I just wanted to see you, Grandma! I miss you,” her eyes are welling up with tears as I begin to take my various medicines.

“What happened to your face?” I wipe a drop of blood off her cheek as she kneels beside my chair.

“I must have scratched myself,” her eyes seem wistful, but she smiles anyway.

I reach out and squeeze her hand, she squeezes mine in return. I beam at her; at the wonderful young woman she has become. I look around the room and remember her as a toddler spilling paint on the carpet. There is still a red stain near the coffee table.

This is my home, I remember. I say the phrase over and over in my head like a mantra so I don’t forget, so I can’t forget.  This room is familiar. I know how I got here.