CaliforniaFeature Section 2StorytellingTell Your True Tale

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By Monique Quintero

________

It is 3 a.m. and I am lying on a cot in the bathroom of my grandmother’s hospital room, listening to other family members snoring away.

Angie has been unresponsive for a few days, and my family is keeping vigil. I know her end is near, but I can feel her presence, still hanging in.

She has had health issues most of her adult life and suffered a major stroke a few years ago. Unable to care for herself, she has been in a 24-hour skilled nursing facility. It has devastated me to see her—one of the most vibrant women in my life—unable to move or speak.

During a recent trip to Europe, in every church I entered, I lit a candle for Angie and prayed to God to give her peace.

Now I slowly get up, trying not to make any noise. I make my way around the other cots, step over an uncle. I sit at the edge of the hospital bed. I lean in, practically lie down right next to Angie. I kiss her cheek and take in her smell. I lay my head on her shoulder.

I can see her old heart-surgery scar, peaking out the top of her hospital gown. I was about 3 years old when she had that surgery. Holding my parents’ hands, walking down the L.A. County Hospital ward past the long line of beds, we found her sitting up, her chest stitched, looking worn but determined. She smiled big upon seeing us and patted her hand on the bed for me to come sit by her.

As Angie’s first grandchild, I grew up calling her Mom (my own mother was Momma). That’s how I heard my Dad address her, but she was adamant that she was never to be called Grandma. Other grandchildren would later transform her into Mom Angie, and then she became just Angie.

* * *

She was born to Maria Bracamontes and Primitivo Carrillo on Oct. 1, 1924, in Dawson, N.M., a coal-mining town. Her sister Carmen arrived a few years later. Her father had a previous wife who passed away, so Angie had half-sisters in Chicago and Mexico. After he died of pneumonia, her mother took in boarders to help supplement her income and later married one of them, Jesús Hernandez. They had two more children. As the oldest child and not his actual daughter, Angie was often the target of her stepfather’s bad moods, but she did not fight back; she suffered through it rather than have him take it out on her mother and sister.

After the family relocated to East Los Angeles, Angie met and married my grandfather, Joe E. Quintero. It was a toxic marriage; she was physically and mentally abused. He eventually left her and started another family. She persevered and raised her four children as a single mother. Some say it was her determination and survival instinct that bonded her to her children and grandchildren. However for me, my connection to Angie was more than that; it was something magical.

I must have been about 2 years old when my parents and I stayed overnight at my maternal grandparents’ house. It was early morning, my parents were still asleep, but I was awake in my playpen. I looked up to see Angie standing in the hallway. As I called out to her, she turned and walked away. I managed to climb out of the playpen, but by the time I reached the living room, there was no sign of Angie. I later told my mother what had happened, to try to figure out how Angie had disappeared so quickly, but she just shook her head and told me, “You must have dreamt it.”

When I recalled the incident as an adult, I could still feel the pain from hoisting myself over the side of the playpen. I mentioned it to Angie. She smiled and explained that when I was little, she was not able to see me as much as she had wanted. My mother, being a new parent, preferred to be at her own mother’s house. My vision that morning must have been one of the times that Angie was thinking about me.

And yet there was a period when she chose not to see me. When she discovered that my Dad had begun to communicate with his estranged father, she showed up at our house one evening, shouting that my Dad was being disloyal. My siblings and I were sent to our bedrooms, but I crept down the hallway. I peeked out and caught her eye as she announced that she was disowning us. I saw a slight hesitation but she looked at my Dad again, yelled some more, turned and stormed out the front door, slamming it behind her. It was about a year before we were allowed at family get-togethers. I cannot think of any other time that she was not a part of my life.

Angie had a love and respect for Mother Nature. She was a curandera (medicine woman). She knew of plants and herbs and their medicinal qualities. Her yard was filled with aloe vera, lavender, rosemary and sage.

I contracted scarlet fever when I was about 6 years old. I was seen by my pediatrician, but the high fever persisted. Angie was called. In my haze, I remember her praying and laying her hands over me. I can still smell the incense and the burning herbs. She sang in a whisper, yet she loudly ordered the illness to leave my body. Soon after that, the fever broke.

One of her favorite plants was the snake plant; its long leaves grow straight up and ended in a sharp point. She believed that growing it brought good luck. It is also difficult to kill. Angie would break up a plant with her bare hands, re-pot the pieces in coffee cans and then give those away to family and friends while praising the benefits. I later discovered that it is a treasured plant in Chinese folklore.

Angie taught me both practical and spiritual life lessons. After I earned my undergraduate degree, I took on night-time internships in Hollywood and could then drive Angie to errands and doctors’ appointments during the day. She taught me her shortcuts and the ins and outs of getting around Los Angeles. I also learned about the “Parking Angel.” Whenever we were on our way to a high-traffic location, Angie would pray and ask an angel to go on ahead of us and secure our parking space. By the time we arrived at our destination, a parking spot was always open.

Angie continued her curanderismo (healing) for family and friends, combining indigenous and Catholic rituals. She blessed houses. She also performed limpias (spiritual cleansings); she would take a whole egg, start at the top of a person’s head, not touch the body, but swipe circularly, always moving downward. Negative energy was pulled from the body and trapped in the egg. While doing this, she would proclaim, “I pray against the root of the cause of this condition, and I say to it: Leave now in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ!”

Angie always ended by shaking her hands away from her body. “The most important thing,” she told me, “is to never forget to throw off the bad energy after you finish a limpia. You do not want that negativity hanging on to you.”

Angie also channeled a Mexican Indian spirit; she would meditate until she was in a state in which she allowed her body be taken over by her “spirit guide.” His name was Piel Rojo, literally translated as “red skin” but intended as “man of the earth color/man of the earth.” Through this process, Piel Rojo passed on knowledge to Angie, for her to gain insight to help herself and others.

One summer when we were in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, Angie hired a driver to take us north into the state of Nayarit. The road was bumpy as we travelled through heavy jungle. Eventually we arrived at a small, lone house. We were greeted by a young girl and led into a sparsely furnished bedroom. We sat down on one of the twin beds. On top of the chest of drawers was a familiar display: a cross, statues of various saints, a rosary and several lit candles. The scent of incense lingered in the air. I was exhausted from the rough trip and humidity, but Angie was alert and ready.

In walked an older woman; she and Angie greeted each other warmly. Angie introduced me as her granddaughter. The woman prayed over us, blessed us and then did our readings.

Te toca ahora (It’s your turn now),” she said to Angie when she finished.

Angie closed her eyes, took in deep breaths, blew them out. She stood up, pounded her fists to her chest and stomped in place.

iYo soy Piel Rojo! (I am Piel Rojo!)” came a deep baritone voice.

Piel Rojo then spoke about the strength achieved when a family works together. He threw his arms into the air and called upon my ancestors to help guide my family and me, to lead us to harmony and success. I was advised to form a family business.

I felt the presence of unseen others in the room. A few burning candles went out.

Piel Rojo closed his eyes, again took in deep breaths, blew them out. There was no movement, just silence. Then Angie opened her eyes and smiled.

* * *

I believe that Angie knew she was not well. A few months before her stroke, I was late in picking her up for an outing. My morning schedule had been disrupted; I was stressed and not very talkative as I got her settled in my car and we took off.

“I want you to know I appreciate everything that we have done together,” she said, breaking the silence.

Angie spoke of all the times we had spent together, and said that she would never forget when I had taken her to the Indian pow wow or to see Los Lobos perform. I felt immediate guilt for being so stressed out and in a hurry. I swallowed the lump in my throat, took a deep breath, blew out all the negative energy, decided to let it all go and enjoy the rest of the day with her.

And now I know I need to help Angie on to her next journey.

I sense that Angie is hanging back because she is worried about us, her family.

In my head, I call out to my great grandparents, Maria and Primitivo, and to Piel Rojo; I ask them all to guide Angie to her next destination.

I whisper in her ear, “It’s OK. We will all be OK. You can let go.”

I lay with her for a while longer, until I feel that her spirit has moved on.

________

Monique Quintero grew up in Whittier. A graduate of UC Irvine with a B.A. in Critical Film Studies, she has worked over 20 years in various areas of the entertainment industry. Since 2013 she has been dealing with a brain tumor and kidney cancer; she found that the writing process not only inspires creativity, it is also therapeutic and healing.
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[dropcap1]W[/dropcap1]hen I was in the third grade, I was chosen to be the announcer at my school’s spring assembly, which meant I would go on stage and announce each class as they came up to perform. It was an honor for a student to be chosen by their teacher to represent the school in this way, and of course, the announcer was to dress in her best clothing.

I didn’t ask my grandmother, who was raising me, for a new outfit, because I figured we couldn’t afford it, but I told her that the teacher said I needed to look my best. I waited for her to say how she planned to make me look ‘my best,’ instead, the corners of her mouth turned downward, and after a few seconds, she said simply, “Okay.”

Over the next few days, I saw her working at the sewing machine that sat on our dining table. The spool of thread at the top of the machine bobbled rapidly, as her left hand guided a piece of tan material under the machine’s large needle, and her right hand rotated a wheel on the other end. The whirring of the machine’s foot pedal could be heard throughout the house. She was making a dress for me to wear at the assembly, but inwardly, I wanted a new one – not one that was homemade.

My grandmother lived two lives. There was her home life with us, where she cooked dinners of fried potatoes with onions in enormous cast iron skillets and baked biscuits from scratch, on which we’d pile her homemade peach preserves. There was also her work life away from home, where she wore a white uniform and worked in up-to-date kitchens, preparing dinners like roast duck with steamed asparagus.

Some evenings, after working a full day, she would return to her job to serve at dinner parties. She laughed about the time her curiosity about caviar got the best of her. She wanted to taste this delicacy, so when she had a moment alone in the kitchen, she piled a large amount on a cracker and put the whole thing in her mouth. She quickly realized she didn’t like the oily taste at all and turned to the sink and spit it out. “If they knew I had spit that expensive stuff in the sink, I don’t know what they would have done,” she said.

As a “domestic” for two families, my grandmother not only prepared dinners for these families, but she also cleaned their homes, did their laundry and watched their children. At home, she didn’t do much of the housekeeping, nor did she prepare dinners that were anything like those she cooked at work. Being a domestic was the only job my grandmother had while raising my sister, my two brothers and me. My father didn’t always live with us, but he helped out by giving her money toward the rent and taking care of our school needs. The everyday feeding, clothing, and raising, in general, was done by my grandmother. She was the drill sergeant who made sure the girls dusted, washed the dishes and ran the vacuum cleaner, while the boys had trash duty, cut the grass and hedges and shoveled snow from our sidewalks and steps.

During the summers, she would enlist all of us to help with larger projects around the house. She would put on a pair of jeans, which she normally didn’t wear, pull her hair back into a ponytail, and work along side us, as we washed walls or painted rooms. Strands of her thin, silky hair would inevitably break free and become plastered to her perspiring forehead. I guess the fact that we lived with her didn’t allow my grandmother the luxury of smothering us with pampering.

“I’ve worked hard all my life,” she would say, and she didn’t expect any of us to be lazy or unproductive either.

But the laundry was a task that my grandmother did not assign to any of her grandchildren. In our basement was a tall wringer washer that clanked loudly and literally inched itself around the room as it spurted soapy water on the floor. When it finished a load of clothes, my grandmother, who at 5’2” was just a little taller than the washer’s round tub, would crank the handle at the top of the machine and it would slowly squeeze the water from the clothes, piece by piece. She would fill a wicker basket with the wet clothes and hang them on a clothesline in our backyard. Sometimes, she would hang laundry out in the cold Ohio winters, but if the air was too frigid, she hung laundry from clotheslines strung from pipes in our basement.

When she had only a few pieces of clothing to wash, she would place a washboard in a large metal tub and scrub the clothes by hand. Although, she did the family laundry weekly, it was pretty much an all-day job for her on Saturdays. After hours of wringing load after load of clothes, she would recline on the couch in front of the television and talk about how much easier it was to do laundry on her job, because there were modern washers and dryers in those homes. Whenever she needed the convenience of an automatic washer and dryer, such as when it was time to wash our bed quilts or throw rugs and such, we piled loads of our laundry in the back of the car and go to a laundromat – still pretty much an all-day job.

Hard work was something my grandmother had done since she was a little girl. She was one of 21 children born to a father who was a former slave and a mother who was Chickasaw Indian and Black. Her formal education ended in the 4th grade, because she was needed in the fields to help feed their growing family. Her father owned land in Tennessee, where he raised pigs, chickens, and horses, in addition to growing vegetables and fruit trees. So, my grandmother learned at an early age how to plant and harvest crops, as well as how to kill and prepare chickens, rabbits and hogs. Anything that had to be baked – pies, cakes, bread, biscuits – she always made from scratch. She said that by the time she was ten years old, she was as good as her mother in the kitchen. She didn’t, however, teach my sister or me how to cook or bake.

“Don’t mess up my kitchen,” she would say to us, as she shooed us away with a dishtowel.

Even during holiday seasons, when there were big meals to prepare, she assigned us only marginal kitchen duty, such as buttering pans – never actually cooking a dish. She didn’t give us a reason, but I wonder now if she just didn’t want my sister and me to “have to” cook, as she did.

She was only 11 years old when she married. She would say that her parents let her get married because that meant there would be one less mouth to feed. She married a 17-year-old farmer, and went from working in her father’s fields to helping her husband live off the land. After their first son was born, they moved to Cairo, Illinois, because she said, “the South was too segregated” and “there was nothing” in their small town of Selmer, Tennessee. My father, and two more boys were born in Illinois, but they lost one son to whooping cough at the age of two. Their marriage unraveled, and she took the boys and returned to Tennessee in the late 1920s. Her widowed mother had remarried, and my grandmother and her children moved in with her new stepfather and new siblings.

By 1931, she was living in Toledo, Ohio in what she called a “common-law marriage.” She and Thomas had met in Tennessee and relocated to Toledo, where he had family. He was long gone before I was born in the 1950s, but my grandmother always referred to him as a good man, who was good to her children. This was a difficult period for our country, and even in an industrial city like Toledo, the Great Depression forced a lot of people out of work.

President Roosevelt had started a New Deal program known as the WPA (Works Progress Administration), and my grandmother was able to get a position as a seamstress. She made clothing that was distributed by the government to needy families. When World War II broke out, they also made clothing for the troops. She didn’t know how to operate a sewing machine prior to working for the WPA, and she had never hand sewn anything fancier than basic pants, shirts and dresses. So, even though she earned less than $500 a year, the WPA was the first place she was given the opportunity to learn a trade.

In the mid-1950s, my parents were divorcing, and my mother would lose her four children. My grandmother became our legal guardian. At almost 50 years of age, she agreed to raise a one-year-old, a four-year-old, a five-year-old and a seven-year-old.

“They were going to send you kids to the Miami Children’s Home if I hadn’t taken you,” she said.

While I have no memories of my mother abusing us, I do remember how my grandmother sacrificed so that my siblings and I had what we needed. Her electric sewing machine sat at the helm of our table ready to mend a ripped pair of pants or hem a skirt. It was a portable, black machine with ‘Singer’ in gold lettering across its sides, and although it sat inside a suitcase-like carrier, it was rarely moved from the dining table.

Except for the new clothes my father purchased at the beginning of every school year, our clothes came from thrift stores or were from the homes where my grandmother worked. For me, this clothing became “third-hand,” because the dresses, blouses and coats were given to my sister first; after she had worn them for a year or two, I would get them. While I didn’t exactly look like a little rag-a-muffin growing up, I didn’t think my clothes were as pretty as those I saw on little girls in the catalogs that lay on our coffee table.

So, when my grandmother called me in to try on the dress she made for my school assembly, I fidgeted as she maneuvered it over my head. Once the dress was on, I stood stiffly, barely looking down at it.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she said. “I have a few more ideas that’ll make it pretty.”

The next day, unlike the hand-me-downs that were loose-fitting and threadbare from wear, the dress fit like it was made just for me. The bodice of the dress fit snugly and the hemline, which stopped a couple of inches above my knees, flowed with pleats that stood out with the help of a tulle underskirt. My grandmother had made a belt of brown velvet that tied in a big bow at the back, and she had sewn two matching velvet ribbons for my hair.

On the day of the assembly, she parted my hair down the middle into two ponytails and tied them with the ribbons, then finished off my outfit with anklet socks and my patent-leather Easter shoes. As I twirled in front of the mirror, I saw a little girl dressed just as pretty as anyone posing in the Sears catalog. My grandmother leaned back in her chair and smiled.

That day, as I ascended the steps to the stage, I overheard the principal say to a teacher near her, “Isn’t she pretty?” I stood with pride at the microphone, staring out at the audience of students and teachers.

My grandmother, though, didn’t attend the assembly. She had to work.

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By Kristi DeMeester

I gave up sleeping in the same bed as my grandmother after the first night she moved into my bedroom. That first night, I stretched my body along the corner of the sagging mattress, my calf muscles cramping; the thin quilt tucked tightly beneath me so that her sagging, yellowed skin would not touch mine. Her chest rose and fell, and I timed my inhalations against her tobacco stained exhalations.

“It’s just until she gets back on her feet. It’s not easy being evicted,” my mother said.

For the next four years, my mother recited her truth. “It’s only for a little while, Kristi.”

Like anything worth hating, it took time to learn how to do it just right.

But before I hated my grandmother, I loved her. Every Thursday I waited for what she called our “nature walks.” From the porch swing, I searched for her faded blue station wagon and rubbed my feet together with impatience.

She’d sweep in smelling of sweat and tobacco; her dark hair teased and sprayed into an immovable coiffure. She wore her makeup like a shield, layering on foundation, blush, and mascara, but no lipstick.  “Chapstick is all I need,” she said.

If a handsome man passed us, she smiled and winked. “When you get a little older, I’ll teach you how to flirt,” she said.

“I’ve always loved tulips,” she said as we stopped to admire the yellow petals. I sniffed them while she lit a cigarette. “Prettiest things I ever saw.” As the scent of tulips and cigarette smoke washed over me, she led me home.

Every year on my birthday she drove me to Shoney’s for breakfast. “It’s my oldest grandbaby’s birthday,” she told the waitress when she raised her eyebrows at my bacon filled plate, “If it’s bacon she wants, she can have it.” In kindergarten, I wrote my first sentences about her. I called her my best friend.

Then, in 1991 her younger sister was diagnosed with lung cancer and was dead four months later.

The next week, I waited on the porch for my grandmother, but she didn’t come. My mother told me, “Grandma is sad right now. Give her some time, okay?” Pretty soon, I stopped waiting.

I imagine she’d hoped she could drown her sadness in a man, and a few months after her sister’s death, she started dating. Three months after meeting Jimmy Head, my grandmother made him her third husband. He laughed easily and loudly, played with me and my brother like he was a child, too. I loved him as a grandfather.

When her marriage didn’t alleviate the sadness of her sister’s death, she began drinking. She hid plastic bottles of vodka under the kitchen sink and drank until she couldn’t stand. “Don’t you touch me,” she hissed when Jimmy tried to lift her.

He hovered, waited for her depression to lift, for the hurt of losing her younger sister to dissipate. When she left him, I cried. Something inside my grandmother had broken in the face of losing a sister with whom she shared so many secrets.

To survive, she waitressed at the Waffle House and weaned herself off of the vodka, only taking a nip every now and again. “To take the edge off,” she said.

On a day my mother couldn’t find a babysitter, my grandmother took me to the Waffle House and sat me at the counter with a dish rag and ketchup bottles that needed wiping. I watched as she delivered coffee and winks to her male regulars.

When her shift ended, she collapsed beside me and pulled her tip money from her apron.

“Count that out for me, hon” she said as she ordered lunch: a double cheeseburger with hashbrowns followed by a honey bun, which she slathered in butter.

“Don’t you ever eat like this,” she warned.

“Why do you?”

“I have a high metabolism, but you’re like your momma and will get bigger than a house,” she pinched my thigh, “and you can’t afford to get much chunkier.”

After that, I jogged in place for twenty minutes before bed each night for the next three years.

In late 1994 my parents divorced, and my grandmother offered us temporary shelter in her three-bedroom home.

No longer married, my grandmother gave up the façade of the tidy housewife and lived in squalor. The kitchen sink crusted under her unwashed dishes; flies ventured into the cool depths of the refrigerator to die in piles around rotting meatloaf. Dirty clothes covered the floor.

Watching her sit in her own filth disgusted me. Often I stared at her and imagined what it would feel like to kick her, or pinch her, or place the dead cockroach I’d found in the kitchen inside her snoring mouth. Even better would be to throw away all of her lottery tickets, but I knew better.  Nothing came between my grandmother and her love of gambling.

When she wasn’t sleeping or working, we could find her at Grand’s gas station feeding her tip money to a slot machine. With her mouth open and eyes glazed, she drank Diet Pepsi and chain smoked as she tapped her darkened fingernails against the buttons.

My mother met a nice man and married him in February, 1996. After three years of saving, my stepfather closed on a house he’d had built for us. For the first time, I had my own bedroom and bathroom.

Then on Christmas Eve of 1999, my grandmother came home from work to find her things scattered on the icy front lawn and an eviction notice taped to the door.

“She’ll only be here for a little while,” my mother said as I shouted, cried, and threw small items. My grandmother moved into my bedroom that weekend. What remained of her life was stuffed into plastic grocery sacks.

“Which side is mine?”

“Next to the window,” I said, pushing the grocery sacks she’d placed on my bed onto the floor.

On the hand-me-down pine dresser, she’d laid out her essentials: her makeup bag, Rave Ultra hairspray, half a bottle of Benadryl. My grandmother had quit drinking, but she took long pulls from that bottle before bed.

I spent the next four years sleeping on the floor and growing to hate her. I had dreams of being a writer. The chirping of the television or her wheezing in the background didn’t allow that.

Sometimes, she caught me on a Sunday morning, a cup of coffee in her hand.

“So who is this Chris boy you’ve been talking about?”

“Just a boy I know at school.”

She sipped her coffee, tilted her head, “So when did he kiss you?”

“Last night.” I clapped a hand over my mouth, “How did you know?”

“I figured somebody had kissed you. You came in this house last night glowing like a lightning bug.”

She told me she loved me every day, and I couldn’t stand her for that.

For my sixteenth birthday my mother and grandmother promised me a sleepover. I’d never hosted a slumber party and was embarrassed at sharing a room with my grandmother.

“You’re sure you won’t be here, Grandma?”

“I’m sure, hon.”

When the day finally came, I raced home and flung open the door only to find her sitting on the bed.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m at overtime, and Craig says I can’t work any more hours this week.”

“Can’t you stay somewhere else?”

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

She hovered on the outskirts of the party, entering the bedroom because she had forgotten something. “Don’t ya’ll mind me! Oh aren’t you just the prettiest thing? If you were any skinnier, you’d just blow away.”

At one point, she stumbled into our bathroom. Her Benadryl had worked its magic because she proceeded to urinate with the force of a Thoroughbred.

At school the next day, word spread about my crazy grandmother. When I sat down at lunch, my friends picked up their trays and moved to a new table.

At home, as I stared at my grandmother’s mess, rage boiled in my belly.

Walking into the bathroom, I grabbed my grandmother’s toothbrush. Our toilet hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, and a blackish green mold sprouted across the white porcelain.

Taking care to push the bristles deep into the mold, I scrubbed every inch of that toilet with my grandmother’s toothbrush. For the next two weeks, I secretly laughed every time she brushed her teeth.

My grandmother bought a trailer and moved out shortly before I turned eighteen. I celebrated by sleeping naked in a new set of bed sheets, but soon I found I was behaving like her. Coming home after my undergraduate classes and job as a waitress, I’d fall into bed still wearing my smelly uniform. Doing laundry meant dousing a t-shirt in perfume and popping it in the dryer. If I ran out of underwear, I’d turn them inside out and wear them anyway.

“Why am I like this?” I asked my mother. “If Justin’s out of town, I won’t change out of my pajamas for days. I leave food containers just lying out. Oh God, I’m just like grandma.”

To offset the periods of sloth, I cleaned every surface until I bled and felt at peace.

At night, I tried to write, but I’d sit instead in front of the television. Paper threatened to consume my desk, reminding me of the pages I hadn’t written. “You’ll never actually peel yourself off of this couch and finish your novel,” I thought, “because you are just like her.

Meanwhile, my grandmother was leaving us. When the doctor diagnosed her with emphysema, she joked, “At least it’s not cancer, right?”

She swore to get more exercise, to eat better, to stop smoking. The oxygen tank hissed as she drew breath from the cord looped over her ears. Each of us scolded her like a child when we’d catch her smoking.

“Are you trying to kill yourself? You shouldn’t be smoking any way, much less next to the oxygen tank!”

Every week, she called me. “I miss you, baby girl,” she said. Too often, I ignored the call.

The last time we spoke was on my twenty-sixth birthday. “Remember when I used to take you to Shoney’s on your birthday?”

“I remember. Listen, I’m really busy.” I never spoke with her again.

Three months later, my grandmother was found dead in her mobile home. While we waited for the attendants to take her body, my brother sat on the ground picking at his cuticles, his hat pulled low. My mother walked in slow circles. I bowed my head so my hair covered my eyes.

“I need to see her,” my mother said, pausing at the rickety front steps. She placed her hand on the door knob then took it off before turning back to me. I couldn’t look at her.

“Oh, Mom,” she said as the door clicked behind her.

Moments later, she called for me. “Kristi, can you please help me? I need to send clothes.”

I turned from the body when I entered.

“Is this nice enough?” my mother held up a cream colored pantsuit. “Can you look in her dresser for socks? She hates to be cold.”

I touched everything with my fingertips, ashamed that even now I was squeamish around her things.

Inside the trailer I held my mother as we cried.

This spring a tulip in my garden flamed out in vibrant pink among the white blooms I’d planted in the fall. I hadn’t planted it. But its petals remained long after the others faded and dropped.

____

Kristi DeMeester lives, teaches, and writes fiction in the Southern Gothic vein in Atlanta, Georgia. Her article “Why I am Not a Luddite” was published in Free Inquiry magazine, and she is currently working on a novel. She blogs about everything she sees at www.oneperfectword.blogspot.com.

 

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