“Tell General I’m done. I want out.” I turn to look at my protector. “Now.”
Chapter 3 - Diana
“Nana, I’m home.” I pull the key out of the door, giving it a little extra tug since the damn thing sticks half the time, before closing and locking it. We might not live in the slums, but you never know who’s going to be knocking on your door in the middle of the night.
Nana bought this home close to Main Street forty years ago so she could walk to work. The store she worked for went under twenty years ago, but with no desire to move, she stayed and changed career paths, going from lifetime cashier to owning a laundromat, which coincidentally is in the same building as her original job. It’s changed owners and themes a few times, but two years ago, it went up for sale, and Nana had the idea to buy it and turn it into what it is now. You’d be surprised how much money you can make at a laundromat.
She’s a regular entrepreneur. First, it was just a soda machine her dad left her in his will, something he used to love to have in his garage. Nana made it pretty and then set it up outside her work when she was a cashier. When she lost her job, she took to stocking it full-time. Eventually she bought five more soda machines and four candy machines. Then she went into commercial business when she bought a self-wash car lot. She now owns two, plus the laundromat.
We both like that money comes in for her even if she only puts in two days’ worth of effort. She and I have hadenough financial troubles that we don’t need to worry about money or Uncle Sam taking any more of it.
Not that Nana allows it. She takes justice into her own hands. Well, sort of. She doesn’t pay taxes. Not on the candy or soda machines. They bring in way more than most people do on minimum wage, but she doesn’t claim it. Her way of sticking it to the man. After how the man took most of our savings with the doctor bills and my nursing degree, she feels justified in how she deems to pay—or not pay—her taxes.
“Oh, thank God. How are you? I heard what happened on the news. I tried calling, but the lines were busy and you weren’t picking up your cell. I would have gone down there, but I didn’t want to be in the way.”
She comes over and gives me a hug, holding my shoulders as she leans in and rests her face against mine. It might not be the warmest hug, but it’s the one she gives, and I’m grateful for each one.
Nana is over seventy and grew up in a time when people weren’t big on affection. At least not in her family. They were more the type to shake hands when greeting each other, even after years apart.
She was pretty close with Mom, I think, but I don’t think I saw them hug more than what I get now. They were happy together, but not the type who told each other everything. But Nana was never one to judge. The moment Mom showed up on her doorstep after two years in college, pregnant and with no man in sight, she took her, and coincidentally me, in without question.
The three of us lived together for the first five years of my life till Mom moved us a few towns away for work. Butfive years ago, we moved back in here. Well, I did. Mom stayed at the hospital mostly because of her repeated seizures and brain swelling. It was tough to watch, but Nana was with me the entire time. And when we finally said goodbye to Mom, nine months after her diagnosis, she helped me get through that too.
Some days it’s still hard for me. I find moments like Mom told me to do. Some days just feel heavier than others. She used to say, “You don’t have to have a perfect day, just a few happy moments in it to make it better than the day before.” She fully believed that every day was better than the last, even if it absolutely sucked, because it meant you were moving forward, either in life or toward something. It was all progress.
And Mom thought that all the way up to the end. It was quick, telling her goodbye, but I got more time than others. And the three of us bonded as if each moment was our last. It wasn’t perfect, but it was everything to me.
Which had me switching my major from teaching to nursing. I was only going into teaching because I had no idea what I wanted to do. But after spending so much time at the hospital, it became a second home.
I get that most people might think I would be put off by working in the same building where I lost my mother, but for me, it’s memories I see each day. The courtyard we picked flowers in that we weren’t meant to. The halls we raced down in wheelchairs. We even stuck some gum under one of the cafeteria tables. I think it’s still there, but I’m afraid to look. Not out of fear that it’s gone, but seeing that it’s still there and knowing no one is cleaning it off? Yuck.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry I made you worry. The cell networks were overloaded after the shooting—everyone was trying to call out. I got home as soon as I could.”
My hands shake. but surprisingly my voice is steady. I’ve been keeping it together all day because I have to. Even now, I push it back like I do with most traumas I see at the hospital.
I let her go and set my bag down, then go to the kitchen and put my lunch box in the fridge. It got so busy that I never had time to eat my dinner, which honestly doesn’t sound good anymore. It never sounds good, but it’s cheaper than delivery. Well, it was. I now plan to open my favorite app and order just about one of everything. Those are the types of leftovers I can eat on repeat. Unfortunately, if there’s anything left, I usually eat it later in the night or for breakfast. Or Nana does.
Neither of us is great in the kitchen, and we established a rule long ago that neither cooks for the other. It saves on food portions. Of course, if you choose to make something for yourself and there’s extra, that’s different.
There’s only one time we cook together, and that’s when we bake cookies. Which comprises pulling them out of the package and putting them on a cookie sheet. The only issue we have there is if they aren’t thawed all the way, which leads to longer cook times—and if you turn the oven up, it doesn’t cook them faster.
That’s a lesson we learned five times.
What can I say? Things sometimes don’t stick with us the first few times. Which makes us perfect roommates. Maybe one day I’ll move out, but I have no desire to right now. Nana’s home is perfect. A two-story colonial-lookinghouse with three bedrooms, two living rooms, and a study. It’s large, far larger than she ever needed with her and Granddad and Mom, but it had character, something Nana always fought to have.
It’s also falling apart. Nothing major, but there are several little projects going on here and there, and some days it looks more like a construction zone than a home.
But at least it’s a place to rest. We both agree that the construction and projects are reserved for the main area. The bedrooms are off-limits. We both need a place to go and just ignore all the bull in life, and our rooms are our own personal sanctuaries.
Nana moved into the study downstairs after Mom passed. That was Mom’s room, or what we planned on her taking, but with the progression of the brain swelling and her tumor, she never came out of the hospital after she went in.
I prefer Nana downstairs, mostly because I don’t want to ever receive the call that she fell down the stairs one day. She might get her steps in and drink all the milk she wants, but she’s still on the small side. A fall for her could be far worse than one for me.
So she gets the lower level mostly to herself, and I get the upper one. We share the kitchen. With the layout, only one room is over hers, and I use that as the craft room. Well, more like the storage room. I don’t have time for crafting, so I rarely go in there and make any noise for her. Not that my lack of time management stops Nana from getting me things to help me “relax”—her word. Apparently, work makes me stressed. And since I’m not quitting my job, I need to find ways to Zen out.
Honestly, I think Nana spends too much time on yoga videos than anyone should. She doesn’t do yoga, not really. She starts a video every day, but after five minutes, she ends up just sitting there and getting distracted by her phone or a random thought in her head. She’s a bit of a nut, but I love her.
“And how is that man of yours?”
