Authors: Kathy Reinhart
In the silence that followed my fond memory, I looked deeply into my aunt’s eyes. I was studying them, reading them, and paying close attention to what they had to say.
“Aunt Karen, there aren’t many things in my life I’ve ever been certain of. I mean so certain I could bet my life on… but I’ve always been positive Gram loved me.” I reached out and pushed several loose strands of hair from her face, and continued, “And that love caused her to make some decisions that may or may not have been for the best, but her intentions were always planted in love.”
I couldn’t help but look at my aunt through sympathetic eyes. Gram had left this my decision and I could only pray I had made the right one.
“Aunt Karen… last night Gram told me about what happened… to you… at the church.”
I searched her eyes for a sign of fear or pain to let me know it was time to stop. I had her attention and her expression was one of certainty, as if she were expecting what I was about to say.
Words bounced through my head trying to put themselves in order and I knew that once I said them, there would be no taking them back. No matter how hard, no matter how uncomfortable, Gram, Aunt Karen and I would have to live with a truth that had been buried for many years.
With both of my hands, I held the hand she had rested on mine, and spoke softly. “Aunt Karen, I thought you should know…” I swallowed hard and stared down at our joined hands. As broken as my thoughts were, somehow, I managed to finish my sentence, “Last night Gram told me… Aunt Karen, I know the whole story. I know you’re my mother.”
The instant the last word crossed my lips, I shivered, anticipating a reaction and expecting the worst. I tightened the grip I had on her hand, searching her eyes for pain or comprehension. She didn’t offer any verbal or visible sign that she had understood a word I said and the silence became stifling.
Shifting my position on the radiator, I cleared my throat and offered an apology.
“I’m sorry; I was hoping that...” Lowering my head, I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Brought on by a little disappointment and a lot of guilt, I had a strong desire to flee the room. Wishing I could take it all back, and knowing I couldn’t, I wanted to distance myself from the events of the afternoon. I was mad at myself for being unable to let the past alone. I was insensitively mad at my aunt for being unable to communicate her feelings to me and I was mad at Gram for shining light on something from the past that had no hope of being changed.
I felt like a coward for wanting to run out on her. I had selfishly thought that bringing the truth to light would somehow give me back something I had lost almost twenty-five years earlier. It wasn’t even that I thought she could take an active part in my life; just knowing she was there and that she knew whom I was would have been enough.
I have a mother, but I can’t make her understand she has a daughter. It feels painfully similar to not having her at all.
When the orderly appeared, holding a tray, I felt a rush of relief pass over me. Mealtime was a legitimate reason for me to excuse myself without feeling guilty of desertion.
“It looks like dinnertime, so I guess I’ll be going now.” I hesitated. “I’m not sure if my coming was the right thing, but… well, I just hope it wasn’t the wrong thing.”
The orderly placed the tray on the table, offering me an impatient stare. I made my goodbye a quick one with a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Aunt Karen, but I really do have to go.”
I had been foolishly mistaken if I thought I’d feel better after my visit. I was so confused about everything from whether or not she understood a word I said, to what I should call her now, to how I felt about returning with Gram tomorrow.
Between tears and exhaustion, I stared out the cab window for what seemed like an endless ride to Willoughby. Gram couldn’t fix what I had done, but I hoped I’d feel better by talking to her.
~ ~ ~
I called out several times but couldn’t find anyone inside so I ventured outside and followed the smell of manure to the small barn behind my grandparent’s house.
“Hello. Gram, Gramp, anyone here?” When no reply came, I yelled, “
HELLO!
” once more.
I stood quietly and looked around as I took in the aroma of farm life.
I hadn’t considered that my grandparents might be out when I paid the cabdriver off. My grandfather had become quite reclusive since his release from prison almost two years earlier. Gram said it was easier to feed twenty people with one hen than it was to get Gramp to leave the house.
“Hey Sugar, didn’t hear you pull in.”
Gramp came from around the side of the barn and it was apparent he had startled me more than my unexpected visit had startled him.
“Hey, I was just about to call a cab to come get me. I thought that maybe you went out with Gram. Is she here?”
Gramp, always known to have busy hands, filled buckets with feed from various bags, as he spoke.
“Naw. She went to the market for a few things.” Throwing a cup of oats into the last bucket, he raised an eyebrow and faced me. “But you can visit a bit with me if you like.”
I looked around the backyard, almost as a trapped rat would search for an escape.
“Uh… Sure. I guess I will.”
As he took the buckets for delivery to anxiously awaiting recipients, I prayed Gram would soon be home. I guess deep down I loved my grandfather but I felt uncomfortable around him, never knowing what to say.
Between my grandparents, Gramp was the easy-going one. He had gone to prison for accidentally killing Wesley Ellis, the same man who killed my parents. Prison broke most men. The steel bars, the infinite weeks, months and years for retrospection and the fight for survival and respect within the cold, merciless walls would take the strongest of men and beat them down to a fraction of their emotional worth. But not Gramp. If anything, I sensed an added degree of calmness and strength since his release.
Maybe that was the reason for my uneasiness around him. I felt as if he were bottling his prison experience inside and that one-day he would unexpectedly blow. I had also heard rumors while growing up that contradicted what Gram always told me about why he went to jail. I’d never had the nerve to ask him or Gram about it, but it was something I thought about, especially when I found myself alone with him.
I stepped back, startled by his voice. “So, how’s that fellow of yours? Treating you well?”
Glancing at the ground to make sure I wasn’t stepping in animal droppings, I replied, “Uh, yeah. It’s been a little hectic lately, but yeah… things are good.”
He turned his suspicious stare in my direction. Before he said a word, he had me feeling like the guilty child who had just been caught in a lie.
“Good? What’s good, Sugar, how’s he treating you good? He helping with the wedding?”
I shook my head, but before I could offer a verbal reply, he continued.
“How about your business? He behind you on that? He there to talk to? He support you when you’ve had a bad day?”
I was inwardly screaming ‘
Gram,
’ but outwardly, I couldn’t get a word past my lips. Gramp never involved himself in my private life, I think in part because I never really included him. This uncharacteristic line of questioning caught me off guard and unprepared. The hours spent at the nursing home had been trying and left me emotionally depleted for his rapid-fire inquiry.
I said, “You’ve been talking to Gram,” for lack of a better answer.
He walked past me on his way to the house and gave me a sly smile.
“We’re married. We’ve been known to do that every now and again.” Taking the rickety stairs two at a time, he added, “Besides, I have to hear it from her. You don’t tell me anything.”
His last statement carried a verbal sting, but he was right. I didn’t share anything with him. It wasn’t an intentional act but more of an omission brought on by discomfort in his presence.
Had Wesley Ellis’s death truly been an accident, I could have understood and dealt with the feelings that arose. However, word had it Gramp had killed him for revenge—and I didn’t know how to deal with the thought of cold-blooded murder.
Once inside the house, Gramp offered me something to drink, which I perceived as a sign he expected me to stay and wait for my grandmother.
Pouring a glass of iced tea, he suddenly turned to me and asked, “You’re not real comfortable around me, are you Sugar?”
The temperature in the room seemed to rise a degree with each second that passed between his last word and my reply. I viewed his question as loaded, and knew I had to handle it carefully.
Taking the glass of tea from his outstretched hand, I lied, “I guess… well, it’s probably because… it’s because I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with you… you know, growing up without you… being around and all.” Aware my reason sounded more like an excuse, I offered, “I’m sorry, I never meant to make you feel that way.”
Sadness filled his eyes and suddenly I wanted to cry and beg forgiveness, knowing I was the cause of his pain. I stared into my glass and tried to think of something I could say to make him feel better—but nothing came to mind.
He spun one of the padded kitchen chairs around and threw a leg over it, sitting backwards on the seat to face me. He ran a hand through his thinning gray hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck, as he stared at the table.
Blue-collar hands. That’s what Gram used to call them. Hands that were strong enough to endure hard physical labor, but soft enough to cradle a family. I watched as one rough, calloused hand slid across the table—and quite involuntarily—my own hand met it half way.
He didn’t speak right away, taking a moment to read my eyes. I recognized the expression on his face as one of profound thought. The undetected tremble that inched along my spine couldn’t prepare me for a deep, meaningful conversation with my grandfather.
“You know Sugar; lots of people are uneasy around me these days...” Nodding in sad acceptance, he added, “…it’s not just you… hell; I figure I left myself wide open for it.”
His sorrow acted as a force, taking control of my emotions. My heart broke for him and to deepen the pain, I knew there was nothing I could do to take it away.
I barely choked out the words, “I’m sorry.”
With a slight shake of his head, he stated, “I got no one to blame.” He hesitated. “But I wouldn’t do anything different if I had to do it all over.”
My mouth twisted as the skin around my eyes tightened. It would have taken God, Himself to stop the next words from crossing my lips, even knowing before I said them—I would regret my haste.
“Gramp… was Wesley Ellis’s death really an accident?”
He gave my hand one more squeeze before releasing it. Picking up my glass, he stood and walked to the sink. The silence in the room became brittle. At that moment, I thought the quiet was more deafening than anything he could have said.
His eyes held mine for an unnerving length of time. Certain I couldn’t take another breath until he answered; I tugged on my lower lip with my teeth, fighting the urge to bite down, as my nerves grew more tense.
He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drew in a long breath and shook his head as he let it out.
“No, Sugar. It was no accident.”
Six
...I craved something that could put my problems into perspective and—if only for lack of a better remedy—humor came the closest to making me feel sane...
“Hey babe, how was your day?”
Feeling mentally sapped, I gave Brian’s greeting as much enthusiasm as I would to a door-to-door evangelist.
“One for the books, glad it’s over…” Guided by a familiar aroma, I turned my head in the direction of the kitchen. “What’s that I smell? Spaghetti?”
With obvious pride shining in his eyes, he replied, “Close… lasagna.”
I pointed toward him and then toward the kitchen, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Yes,” he replied.
Taking hold of my hand, he led me into the kitchen and picked up the book that sat open on the table.
“See, it’s called,
If You Can Read, You Can Cook,
and to be perfectly honest, without tasting I think I did alright.”
I glanced around the kitchen and noticed the countertops were clean, the sink was empty and the garbage was gone. I tossed my sweater to the chair closest to me and turned to face him.
“Brian, what brought this on? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but the only things I’ve ever seen you
cook
are cereal and sandwiches. Why tonight? What’s up?”
He wrung the dishtowel he’d been holding as his gaze fell to the floor. “It’s an edible peace offering.”
The visits with my aunt and grandfather had pushed this morning’s argument to a far corner of my mind. Our differences now seemed trivial, lost among thoughts of the day I’d had.