“Yeah, because you’re not having sex at all. Your decisions are fueled by fear, not joy or adventure. Not even peace and stability.” Grandma’s hurled accusation bounces off the wall with an overabundance of pictures and frames from every decade. “You rush around like a headless chicken, never taking any time to reflect or refill your well.”
“I’m thequeenof reflection,” I say, which doesn’t do wonders for proving my maturity, but it’s such a wildly false accusation. All I do is stew and rehash.
“Beating yourself up for every mistake isn’t the same as learning from them.” My grandmother scoots to the edge of her recliner, fire in her eyes like I’ve never seen before. “You have a list of accomplishments, but hardly any experiences. That’s not living, Mia. You’re stuck. And if you don’t learn to let go and give yourself more grace, you’ll be surviving instead of living, the rest of your life.”
Lead fills my gut, those sensitive feelings I’ve mentioned flaring as fast as my temper. “That’s rich coming from someone who hasn’t dated since you left my grandfather.”
Wanda gasps, and the temperature of the room plummets at my grandmother’s icy glare.
Mistake—I instantly know it.
Grandma Helen was the sole person in the world who pretended I didn’t make any. She never chided me for crying too much or for caring about a bird with a broken wing and every tragic news event, as well as what some jerk said on social media.
Sure, we dished out a little tough love here and there, but what I just heard is I don’t have a life or learn from my mistakes, which is the only thing worse than making them.
And of course I’m stuck—I’m living in a retirement community—and she’s not being very understanding. Especially considering my OCD probably came from her. Maybe she never loses hours or days to it, or maybe she just handles or hides it better than I do, but I’ve seen hints. Like when she repeats instructions three times, in the excessive handwashing and scrubbing of counters, and how flustered she gets over a misplaced item.
Or maybe I’m simply exhausted from doing all the therapy and research while she and Mom blow it off as “everyone gets anxious sometimes” rather than a booby prize that came with my DNA.
“We have a big day tomorrow. Time for me to turn in.” Springs creak, the underside of my grandma’s recliner loud in the resounding silence.
“Helen,” Wanda tries, but she goes quiet at the firm lift of Grandma’s palm.
The rattle of her saucer and teacup echo through the uncomfortable fog of tension, so thick I instantly recognize where Mom learned the silent treatment.
Hysteria creeps in—I’ve finally annoyed even my grandmother enough for her to flee my presence.
I wait until I hear the snick of her door before I turn to Wanda, desperately hoping for an ounce of understanding.
Clucking her tongue three times, as if there’s not enough guilt inundating my system already, she tightens the belt of her champagne-colored kimono with the purple chrysanthemums and stands.
“There’s a lot you’re not aware of, and that’s not your fault, but I’m going to ask you to avoid any mention of…” Wanda shudders. “That man.”
My grandfather.
For most of my life, I considered my grandma the strongest person I knew, but at sixteen, when I heard the story of how she’d fled a violent man, I discovered the layers upon layers of what she’d gone through to become a strong, opinionated woman who didn’t take shit from anyone.
After a month of planning, Wanda with her pink popping gum, bottle-dye blond, and double D implants (though those came between husbands and before her bout with cancer) swept in and gathered my preschool-aged mother, grandmother, and what little they could pack in a bag, and fled.
During that stretch when we lived with Grandma after my bio dad left us behind, she never hesitated to tell my mother she warned her not to marry “that man,” who was so much like her asshole father. How if she’d “just listened.”
And she wasn’t wrong about the asshole part, but I’m pretty sure Grandma Helen thinks of most men that way.
I peer at Wanda from my cushion on the couch, expecting her to deliver a gem of wisdom that changes everything. Or at least say she agrees with my point about Grandma not dating and that we should do something about it.
Instead, she bends to kiss my forehead, undoubtedly leaving behind a pearly pink mark and a note of patchouli oil. “Good night, Mia. Take it from me, some things are better left in the past.”
Chapter Eighteen
The words on my computer screen blur as my vision drifts out the window, toward the foursome of Silver Swingers wearing the busiest, ugliest color-combination of argyle I’ve ever seen, along with the snug shorts mentioned while picketing.
Funny how that protest seems likeagesago now that I’ve made progress within the community. Demonstrations and resident complaints are down, Jan’s given a few tours a day since our last positive article, and while interest forms aren’t exactly pouring in, we’ve bumped occupancy from sixty-two percent to sixty-fiveand are finally on a steady upward trajectory.
Unlike the golfer struggling with a sand trap on the seventh green or hole or whatever. Not that I could do any better, but the tantrum he throws, hacking at the sand with the rod of iron in his hands, is a definite red flag, and a protective surge goes through me on behalf of my grandmas.
The eligible bachelors of AARP are also my biggest obstacle. They turned sex into a competitive sport where female residents felt pressured to throw caution to the wind, yet they wouldn’t attend seminars, despite the invitation I extended to Bob, the head of the Silver Swingers.
“How do I get more men?” I drum my fingers on the granite desktop, snorting once I realize how it sounds. Not that I couldn’t use advice in that department…
