Grandma's Love: Memoir

Libby Dulski
10/9/16
Memoir

Grandma’s Love

I sit in the same rickety, metal rocking chair I have sat in since infancy, only now I can reach the table without kneeling. The pillow underneath me is hard and worn from years of resting in the rain: The forest green cover is crusty and stained with streaks of dark discolored patches, yet it is the hardest most-comfortable pillow in the world. The auburn brick underneath my bare feet cools my toes as I rock back and forth in the chair many years my elder. A familiar pattern of car horns signals the last few minutes of rush hour. The hot Midwest sun has yet to set, and the Chicago smog envelopes me in a thick blanket of moisture. I am in Glenview, a posh suburb filled with private schools, houses with unnecessary pillars that are most definitely not for structural support, and purebred dogs. I am a thousand miles away from the salty air that fills Boston. A thousand miles away from stress, screaming, and home.

Grandma stands on the opposite end of the brick patio. Her hair is cut short in her signature pixie cut, and it is the same dark brown with tints of red like mine. However, her hair is speckled with gray. Grandma has a spattering of freckles across her face that I, unfortunately, did not inherit from her Irish genes. She wears bracelets on her right arm up to her elbow and a long gray tunic over bright pink capris. Thousands of glittery treasures reflect in the evening sun from Grandma’s wrist. For years I have watched her gently remove them one by one before going to bed.

I remember being calmed watching her remove each bracelet one night when I was fourteen. It was the night Grandma had decided to take my grandfather off life support. He had been struggling for weeks before she let him go. It was her decision, and I supported her, little did I know that supporting her would create a familial rift as my mother did not agree. She threw ancient bowls of china at Grandma; thousands of white splinters covered the worn kitchen floor as my grandma tried desperately to defend herself. I stood in the lightless dining room, too afraid to enter the kitchen, too afraid to be anywhere in the crossfire of coarse words and shattering dishware, too afraid to turn on a light, too afraid to breath. I no longer visit Grandma with my mother, and Grandma now uses paper plates as often as she can.

I am summoned back from my memory as I watch Grandma pick different greens from her impressive garden. She gathers handfuls of spinach, kale, and arugula and deposits them into a big blue strainer. She moves slowly back towards the screen door into the kitchen. I swear, she does not walk, she glides. The sound of water hitting the blue strainer makes my stomach grumble. I have offered to help with dinner at least twenty-five times. She very rarely accepts my help unless it involves shucking corn; a task that she despises. The thwack of a sharp knife against a cutting board startles me. Glancing into the kitchen, I see bright red and yellow cherry tomatoes falling into the dark purple ceramic salad bowl. A shrill beep signals that the salmon in the oven is ready.

The beep takes me back to the smoke alarm going off as a smoldering turkey is whisked out of the oven on Thanksgiving. We had just learned that my grandfather was sick. The entire extended family was in Boston: Ancient aunts wearing too much lilac perfume, great-grandmothers with dead stuffed foxes around their necks, newly wedded second-cousins with absolutely too much happiness, uncles screaming at TVs with football, cousins begging for attention, and mothers barricading themselves in the kitchen cooking their signature dishes. I remember standing with my cousin Henry outside the kitchen because the moms did not want the children’s grubby hands snatching at dessert. We sniffed eagerly as the smells of burnt butter and baked pumpkin pie slowly drift through the cracked kitchen door. Henry and I were the only ones to watch as Grandma and my mother fought. At first it was just hushed words as they decorated pumpkin cupcakes with innocent dashes of white icing. But then my mother slammed her fist onto our marble countertop and Grandma froze. Henry and I inched backwards from the cracked door, slinking away to play with our younger cousins. Years later we talked about what we had seen, and it was only then that we realized that it was about my grandfather.

“Libit, come and grab something to drink for yourself. Have whatever you want, Lovely.” Grandma calls from the kitchen as I return from my memory.

I grab a can of pop from the fridge, several months expired as always, and pour the semi-fizzing liquid over a hefty helping of banana shaped ice cubes. Somehow, Grandma’s expired pop always tastes better than regular pop. The porch table is set with a place for Grandma and me. Bright neon green placemats adorned with cherry red swirls cast reflections on our white paper plates. Grandma brings out a single candle and places it in the middle of the mesh-metal table. My youngest cousin Derek demanded years ago that at dinner we have “mood lighting,” and, somehow, it became a tradition; now at every meal we have to have at least one candle lit. The humidity is lifting, and a slight breeze picks up the steam from the salmon and brings it straight to my nose. The mixed salad is perfect; it has a drizzle of honey mustard vinaigrette dressing which lingers on my tongue as I take a bite of the baked salmon. The slight taste of lemon in the salmon goes wonderfully with the simple salad. Grandma turns on the stereo. Beethoven’s 5^th symphony rolls out of speakers that surround the patio. I will only ever listen to classical music willingly when I am with Grandma. I smile as I take another bite of salmon.

“Libit, what is Beethoven’s favorite type of fruit?” Grandma says, raising her eyebrows in an attempt to hide her smile.

 “I honestly have no idea” I say sarcastically, playing along with the joke I have heard at least three hundred times.

With a wild gesture of her arms as if she is conducting her own symphony she says, “Ban-an-an-aaaaa.”

…

Like a tornado, plates are cleared, dishes are washed, coffee is brewed, and dessert is served in a fury. Grandma and I have moved into the living room. In the winter a gentle fire would be burning, and the smell of pine candles would fill the house. However, it is July and for now the air conditioning is set to 68 and my decaf coffee sits on a van Gogh coaster on the marble table as I balance a plate (yes an entire plate) of pecan squares in my lap. My grandma’s pecan squares are the best goddamn sweet in the world. Her secret is to add a layer of Hershey’s dark chocolate bars on the top of the pecan squares. The squares are slightly undercooked; in other words, the bars are perfect. As I bite into one of the many squares on my plate, the squishy middle mixes with the crust and dark chocolate. I follow this with my syrupy coffee; wow, it is a heavenly combination.

Beyond full and with a chocolate buzz, I head upstairs to my room. The door to the guest room actually has a sign that says “Libby’s Room,” I claimed it when I started visiting more often at fourteen years old. After my grandfather died, it seemed awful to have just one person living in a home; it is just not home if there is only one person. The night my grandfather died, I chose a side; I chose Grandma’s side, forever distancing myself from my mother. I did not know I was choosing anything, I did not know that my mother would forever resent my grandmother and any bond or connection I had with her would from then on continue to distance myself from my mother.

 The guest room is simple; it has a queen size bed and a small TV on a plain white vanity. The room is decorated with my own artwork and my many cousins’ doodles. I am the eldest grandchild, and Grandma might have a slight bias towards me because of that. Before the passing of my grandfather, my mother would stay in this room. I would often roll onto the bed doing summersaults until gravity threatened to send me off the edge of the bed. My mother would scold me and tell me to “stop horsing around.” Grandma would watch from the doorway: “Oh Ruthie,” she would say, “Let the child play for goodness’ sake.”

I climb into the bed that my mother has not touched in years and await Grandma. Yes, I am technically a legal adult, but that does not me I cannot enjoy being babied. She enters the guest room with a slight knock, not waiting for me to say come in. She floats into the room with a tall thin ceramic mug filled with steaming milk. She hands it to me silently, her bracelets jingle lightly: A symphony that I enjoy far more than Beethoven’s. I sip the frothy whole milk (there is no skim milk in this household), I think the whole milk makes it taste even more magical and lovely. I slide deeper under the covers as Grandma tells me how happy she is that I am here, and honestly I am freaking thrilled to be here. I love my mother, and she loves me. But I made the right decision that day, purposeful or not. I will love Grandma, even if my mother resents her. She shuts off the lights as I take a final sip of my warm milk. I close my eyes; the milk tickles my stomach lulls me to sleep.