I get out of my car and go into the unlocked front door. “Hey, Granny!” I call.
“About time,” she says, which I realize may be how she’s always greeted me. Like I’m always behind. She means it in a friendly way, but there’s an edge to it that makes my spine stiffen. “Just got my children out for fall.”
I go to stand beside her and kiss her cheek, which she returns. I look over her collection of dolls in the window, those creepy Motionettes—the dolls that have vacant stares and move in the most unsettling ways. I never did like the damn things. Even if they didn’t move they’d be weird. These are the fall and Halloween ones, so they’ve got that extra kiss of macabre. But Granny loves them, calling them her “children.”
“They look good,” I lie. Despite my many rebellions against Granny, I never had the gall to insult her “children.” A disturbing configuration of power strips under the window that are probably as old as this house fuel the things. She catches me looking at the setup.
“Quit that. They’ve always worked just fine like that. Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.”
I simper and she gestures for me to sit at the kitchen table. I take in all the familiar kitschy details: tchotchkes galore, needlepoints that hardly make sense, and the most hideous throw pillows you can imagine. As much as she’s a grouch, she’s all set up for my visit. Two unopened cans of caffeine free Diet Coke sit across from each other with straws next to them. A lemon pound cake is sliced on a plate between them, Blue Willow china plates neatly set next to our Diet Cokes.
She was excited for me to show up. I sit and crack open my can, sliding the straw in the top. A familiar warmth settles over me. Yes, we fought like cats and dogs, but we always had our little cake and Coke sessions to hold our relationship together. She’d tell me about my parents, or things that happened when she was young. Granny always had some shockingly relatable story to haul out.
She told me about how she and Gramps fell in love. Gramps would pop in from tinkering in the garage and confirm or deny various aspects of that story, steal a slice of lemon cake, and disappear again.
I touch the peace lily on the table, noting the florist tag on it.
“From Gramps’s funeral,” I say.
Granny nods, plucking at a yellowed leaf tip on an otherwise immaculate plant. “It’s held up pretty nicely.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agree.
She purses her lips and I know I’m about to get it. “Interesting that you’ll come home for some woods-stomping adventure with Mr. Hines, but you won’t come home to be with your old grandmother.”
I sigh, folding my hands neatly on the table. If I show signs of weakness, she’ll pick more. “He’s Dr. Hines or Richard, Granny. You know that.”
She primps the back of her hair, which I know for a fact she got done at her every Tuesday set appointment at the only salon in town. It’s always funny watching these young, hip women style the town’s old ladies’ hair, but they do it with the grace and respect that they would use for their own grannies. “Did he ask about me?”
I hold back a laugh. Granny dated Richard in high school. They’re both in their late seventies or better now. She always talks like she’s his one that got away, and he always talks like he couldn’t wait to get away from her. I choose a fib. “He sends his regrets. He has to keep his morning coffee shop routine.”
Granny sniffs. “Are you still doing your . . . internet pornography thing?”
Now I actually laugh. “Granny, come on. I make videos about mushrooms. I encourage people to get out in nature. That’s hardly pornography.”
She inspects her pristine mauve-colored nails. “Everything on the internet comes back to sex.” I don’t think she realizes how funny she is with her off-the-wall hot takes, but it’s part of what keeps me from completely cutting her out of my life. “And your boyfriend?”
I force a smile. “We broke up.”
She huffs like I’ve just given her some awful task to manage. “Well, there is this nice boy at church. I bet if you spent less time outside?—”
I check the clock on the kitchen stove before cutting her off. Another hour of this before I go get Richard. “No, Granny.”
I pullup to Skye’s farmhouse at around 7:30 p.m., bracing myself for battle. I can’t turn around and say I found the wrong house because I’m on a damn farm. I’m pretty sure a goat is looking at me right now, but it’s getting dark out. Hard to tell.
Shouldn’t goats be inside now?
Like I summoned it with my thoughts of goat bedtimes, a pajama-clad toddler rushes the goat.
“Luna!” a man, who I assume is Skye’s partner, calls from the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the house’s light. “Don’t scare her!”
I’m not sure if “her” is me in my car or the goat, but I feel I should probably go inside and stop avoiding the inevitable.
I sniff in a breath and get out of my car, toting a gas station bag full of junk food and a bottle of wine that is sure to taste absolutely terrible. I wave over my head to the man, who gives some sort of salute back.
Skye opens the door with wide arms, wine wafting off her as she whisper yells, “You made it!”
“I did!” I also whisper yell, stepping into her hug.
