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from Contest #2

     All the trouble began when my grandfather died and my grandmother - my father's mother - came to live with us. I was fifteen years old and was mad and wished that granddaddy Luke would've lasted three more years. That way, I would’ve been out of the house, on my own on some large university campus.  But no. He had to die too soon and leave me holding the bag of trouble.

     I didn't like my grandmother for a number of reasons. For starters, she insisted on all her grandchildren to call her Noni. But I never did. I thought it was stupid. Why couldn't we just call her grandma like normal kids? Second, she thought my taste in food was strange, always criticizing that I liked to eat peanut butter and Jelly sandwiches with Doritos. And to top it all off, she was always saying how skinny I was and how my nose was too big. All these things she would bring up during our summer visits to Alabama and now she was coming here to live with us. 

     We lived in Charlotte, North Carolina. Dad was a surgeon at Mercy Hospital and mom stayed home. Good thing, too, because she would be able to take care of grandma. 

     The day finally arrived and we all went to pick her up at the airport.

     “You be on your best behavior, James,” mom said. “You hear me? I know she can be a bit difficult at times, but she is still your grandmother.”

     “Yes, ma’am.”

     “She had changed since the last time I saw her, last Thanksgiving I think it was. She wasn’t as talkative and she seemed to have gained a new wrinkle or two. She was noticeably sad and her eyes seemed to drain the blood out of me. I was starting to feel sorry for her and almost regretted for hating her so much for criticizing me the way she did.

     “Hello, James,” she said as she reached out her arms. Dad nudged me toward her and we hugged. Here was the time she would have said how skinny I was and pitched my big nose and told mom to feed me more steak and potatoes. But she didn’t do that this time. She was gentle and soft spoken and I was beginning to wonder if she was the same person. I suppose death of a loved one does that to a person. Changes them, humbles them in some way. At fifteen, I didn’t yet understand death, thought that I was, as most kids do, invincible. That was until my best friend Andy was killed in a car a week after grandma moved in.

     Like many fifteen year olds, I hated the world and wanted everything done my way. I was polite when I needed to be, of course. I still opened doors for women, said yes ma’am and no ma’am. I never used drugs or drank beer. I didn’t get involved in gangs. But what I did was start keeping to myself more often. I quit the swim team. Andy and I joined together and I just couldn’t do it without him. I stopped going to the Friday night high school football games. Andy and I used to do that together, too. I broke up with my girlfriend.

     Grandma was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when I walked in, a cup of tea next to her.

     “How are you doing, James?”

     “Okay.”

     “Come sit down with me a minute, I want to talk to you.”

     I opened the refrigerator door. “Kinda busy, grandma. Got a lot of homework to do. Just came down for a snack.”

     “Well, have your snack with me. Surely you can spare a few minutes with your old, ugly grandma.”

     I set the jar of strawberry jelly on the counter. “Yes, ma’am,” I said and then walked over to the pantry and pulled out the peanut butter and a bag of Doritos. I expected her to say something about it when I finally sat down to join her, but she didn’t.

     “I know you and I haven’t seen eye-to-eye on everything, James, but I want you to know that I love you. I always have. It’s just that I wasn’t good at that sort of thing, you know, telling you that before. When your grandfather died something clicked inside of me. I’m not going to be around much longer and I just wanted you to know that...that I love you. And if there’s anything you need to talk about, you just come talk to me about it any time. Okay?”

     “Yes, ma’am. I’ll try.” I stuffed the last of the sandwich in my mouth, took the last sip of milk, and ran back up to my room. I didn’t know what else to do. Here was my crazy old grandma who used to criticize me every chance she got and now she was telling me she loved me and to come talk to her any time about my problems. I mean, could it get any better than this?

     This went on for the last several weeks, grandma trying to get me to talk to her and me saying that I’ll try and then race up to my room. “Just give him time,” I’d hear mom say or “I’ll talk to him,” dad would say, but never did.

     On June 15 grandma died. She had been with us for three months. Within that time I never shared my problems with her. I didn't go to the funeral. I remained in my room eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Doritos, accumulating more trouble.  

 

 

 

back to Contest #2