“Is she sleeping or out?”
“I’ll be the first to let bygones be bygones if you—”
“Without, Grandma! There are no bags. There will never be bags!”
Grandma bolts upright and strains her voice into a hushed command. “Keep your voice down, you hear? I don’t have these circles under my eyes because I had a good night’s sleep! I was up half the night and into the morning with your mama. Her legs cramping, her stomach turned inside out, and then crying and carrying on till she finally cried herself to sleep. Whimpering for the likes of you.”
Zoe leans against the doorjamb and breathes out a long deliberate sigh. “Welcome to the world of Mama, Grandma. You just tuned into this station. I’ve been listening to it for years.”
Grandma grunts. “Oh, sure, now that you have your own place you think you know so all-fired much. Well, let me tell you how it really is—”
“No. I know all about Mama, and I don’t need to hear it from you. You’re so wrapped up in what you want her to be, you don’t see what she really is.” She pushes away from the door and walks to the counter. “I’m just here to pick up my mail. That’s it.”
Zoe begins shuffling through piles of paper searching for an envelope with a County Tax Office return address. Grandma is quiet. For the first time in Zoe’s memory, Grandma has nothing to say. The silence is long and heavy. The words Zoe has spoken have punched the air out of Grandma, and she isn’t even sure why. It can’t be news. Zoe’s shuffling slows as she looks sideways at Grandma, who is leaning back, staring at a kitchen wall that only holds stains and a flyswatter. Lost in the world of Mama. Swallowed up by a kitchen where she doesn’t belong, looking smaller than Zoe remembers, not looking like Grandma at all. The mail is forgotten and Zoe stares. She sees flesh and bones of another person. Someone she doesn’t know. Who is this woman? Who is she? Did she ever have a life outside Mama? Did she ever plan for a spring garden? Did she ever walk past a storefront and yearn for the dress inside? Plan to lose five pounds, just for her? Just because it made her feel good? Did she ever make love with a man? Not sex. She knows there was that with Grandpa—at least three times. But love. On a kitchen table with silverware clattering to the floor. Passionate and urgent, with sweat and screams and laughter. Grandma? Was she ever a woman all her own? And if she was, what happened to her? Where did that woman go? When did she stop believing in herself and start only believing in Mama? When did she lose that part of herself that was truly just hers? How do you lose yourself like that? How long does it take for someone to dissolve away to nothing?
“And you do?”
Grandma has been quiet for so long, Zoe has lost the question.
“Do what?”
Grandma turns in her chair to face Zoe fully. “Think you know so much about your mama. Where’d you get all those smarts from, Beth? From your daddy?”
Daddy. Like it’s a dirty word.
The quiet was to refuel. Reorganize. Zoe can see that now. No one beats Grandma at strategy. Zoe is silent. She doesn’t want to talk about Daddy. Not with Grandma.
“Nothing to say? Well let me tell you about his smarts—”
“Please, Grandma.” Her voice is breathy, and she feels the ground she has lost. “Drop it,” she says more firmly. “It won’t get us anywhere.”
“Oh no, I think it will. It’ll get some fool notions out of your head that you’ve been nursing. You brought all this up, so let’s clear the air.”
Clear air is vulgar and bare coming from Grandma’s lips. Needles stab at her throat. “Daddy has nothing to do with this, so let’s just leave him out of it.”
&nb
sp; “You don’t know, do you? You don’t even remember?” Grandma laughs and shakes her head. “I told your mama that. I told her, but she didn’t believe me. I told her you were so sound asleep all you remember was the screaming. Her screaming and throwing your daddy out. That’s all you remember.” She laughs again.
Zoe throws down the stack of mail in her hands. “I’m going to check the stacks on Mama’s dresser.” She knows. That will do it. That will change Grandma’s gears. That will jerk them out of their determined clear-the-air track.
“Stop! Don’t you wake her!”
A point for Zoe.
She walks down the hall, Grandma in pursuit, trying to keep up. Zoe is already opening the door, and Grandma retreats, breathless, afraid to rock the tenuous fleeting world of Mama’s peace. Zoe avoids the floorboards that creak. She has them memorized. She has safeguarded the peace more times than Grandma. But in just a second or two it is apparent. Zoe recognizes the soft rumbling breaths and Mama’s body pressing into the mattress like she is sewn there. Her slumber is deep. Prescription-pill deep. Drink deep. Pain-free deep. A little peace for Mama. The light is dim, only faint twilight seeps through drawn shades and heavy drapes. But it’s enough. Enough to see the beauty of Mama. Enough to see the delicate china doll that is coming undone.
Zoe sits on the edge of the bed, easing down so gently the bedsprings hardly wheeze. The room is different. Grandma has been here. The nightstand is free of glasses and pill bottles, free of rings of dust and clutter. Grandma, trying. Always trying. The dresser is clear, too. Polished and almost attractive. Sheets have been washed. Lampshades straightened. Clothes picked up from the floor. Cobwebs swiped from corners. It could almost pass for a bedroom like any other, if not for Mama. Grandma can change some things, but not all. The picture just over the lampshade still hangs crooked. Grandma didn’t bother straightening that. It’s Zoe’s favorite picture. Mama standing on the courthouse steps with flowers in her hair, smiling at the camera. Her fingernails are like ten little rose petals spread in a row across her white suit. Her face, happy and young and hopeful. Daddy is standing next to her, not looking at the camera but at Mama. Boyish. Love and wonder filling his face. And Zoe is there, too. Unseen. Mama’s tummy still flat. But there. And Mama knew it and was still smiling.
Her hand moves from her lap to lie on top of Mama’s hand. “I won all my matches last Friday, Mama,” she whispers. “I was the star. Remember what Daddy used to say about the stars—” She swallows against the ache in her throat. “I think you would’ve been proud. I’ve come a long way. A couple of years ago, I was dead-last, and now people pay attention when they see Zoe Beth Buckman walk on the court. I even have a cheering section. My own cheering section. Mama? Maybe next Friday you can come.” Mama doesn’t stir. Zoe knows she won’t. “Or another time.” Zoe stands and reaches out to straighten the picture over the lamp. She touches the small white inch of glass that is Mama’s tummy. Where did that person go?
She looks away. Don’t sink in, Zoe. The validation sticker is all you need. Get it and get out. Before it’s too late. She opens the closet door but Grandma has been here, too. There is no mail. Back to the kitchen. Grandma is waiting for her in the hallway.
“This what you’re looking for?” She holds up a white envelope. Zoe sees the return address. County Tax Office.
“Yes. Thank you,” she says and reaches for it.
Grandma pulls the envelope away. “Whoa. Hold on. Just a minute. These things aren’t free you know.”