Chapter 15
That afternoon, I send my neighbor Sam a text saying I’m extending my trip by a few days. They respond with: You got eleven packages. They’re clogging up my living room.
Really? I ask.
No, you got four. But they are clogging up my apartment.
I really, really appreciate it! I’ll be home in a week, max. I’ll bring you something from Florida.
Sam responds simply, K .
My parents are another story. After my final meeting wraps up, I step out onto Gramps’s balcony and give my mom a call to let her know about my change of plans.
“You’re staying there? Is everything okay?” My mom’s voice is shrill with worry.
“Yeah, everything is fine. I just need to figure out some stuff with the house, and, I don’t know, I think Gramps likes my company.” I perch on the edge of a deck chair, which squeaks with age.
“Of course he does. Who wouldn’t enjoy your company?” she says with the certainty only a mom can have. “How’s he doing?”
“He seems okay. He seems like Gramps.” I hesitate, wondering if I should tell her about his panic attack outside Bettina’s Beach Boutique. Normally, that is the type of thing I would tell my mom without a second thought. But for some reason, it feels like a secret between Gramps and me.
“Okay. But you can’t stay there forever, you know.”
“What? Who said anything about staying here forever?”
“You have your life here, your home, your parents .”
“Mom, I am not staying here forever.”
“Because Florida sunshine is not all it’s cracked up to be. It can really age you. Plus, their politics there are just…” Mom makes a noise of disgust. “You haven’t talked to anyone about politics, have you? Because those people can turn on you like that.” She snaps her fingers.
“No, I haven’t talked to anyone here about politics. It’s not like I’m going to dinner parties. I’ve made small talk with, like, three people.” And made out with one , my brain interjects rudely.
“Good.”
“But you know Gramps watches MSNBC. What’s the big deal?”
“Yes, but he lets his friends think he watches Fox News.”
“That cannot possibly be true.”
“Anyway. You are much better off at home in Seattle.”
I gaze over the balcony railing at the Gulf of Mexico shimmering lazily under the bright sun. I suddenly have a very strong urge to be sprawled out in the hot white sand.
“Whatever you say, Mom.”
We say our goodbyes and I tell Gramps I’m heading to the beach.
“Do you want to join me?” I ask.
“No, no, it’s time for my nap. You have fun.”
I realize, with a heavy feeling in my chest, that although Gramps lives on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, he never ventures beyond the pool deck.
The next morning, it’s back to my workday routine… Florida-style. With the time difference, I don’t have to start work until noon here. I sleep in until a luxurious nine forty-five.
“The dining room closes at ten,” Gramps tells me, sitting at the kitchen table as I enter the kitchen, rubbing my eyes.
“I know. I usually just have a smoothie before work.”
“Work, yes. I’m very interested to see this so-called remote work in action.”
I side-eye him as I gather my yogurt, spinach, and frozen peaches.
“It’s not all that interesting. It’s literally just me sitting at my laptop.”
He shakes his head and flips a page of his newspaper. “In my day, it was a lot of bustling from lab to lab, holding twenty-person meetings in windowless conference rooms, and chatting with colleagues in the office kitchen.”
“Well,” I say, ducking down to look in a cabinet, “I guess scientists can’t really do all their work from home. So if you’d still been working in the 2020s, you would have been spared the dreaded remote work.”
“You think so?” Gramps says thoughtfully. “I didn’t care for the office environment all that much. The kitchen always smelled like tuna fish. Do people still eat tuna fish sandwiches?”
“I wouldn’t know.” I stand on my tiptoes to check another cabinet, a sliver of panic creeping in. “Gramps, do you have a blender?”
“A blender? Of course!” He heaves himself out of his chair and opens the cabinet beneath the toaster, from which he extracts a boxy, yellowing blender with square buttons. He hands it to me with a proud smile.
“Osterizer,” I say. “Hey, didn’t we used to use this to make milkshakes when I was a kid?”
“Indeed! I bought this for Lottie for our tenth anniversary. Ordered it from the Sears catalog.”
“The Sears catalog? Wait, so have you had this blender since the 1970s?”
“Sure!”
I peer skeptically into the pitcher, half expecting to see a thick layer of dust.
“Okay… thanks.”
I load it up with my usual smoothie ingredients, plug it in, and press the BLEND button, which gives a satisfying click. The blender does not erupt into flames. It is, however, extremely loud, and after thirty seconds or so, it gives off a pungent odor of burning plastic.
“Oh my God,” I choke, pressing the OFF button. “When is the last time you used this thing?”
Gramps looks up from his paper unconcernedly. “Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. When was the last time we made you kids milkshakes?”
“What?”
“Or, no, wait, Lottie used it to make daiquiris once. That must have been around 2006, because it was when the Wilsons had their going-away party. So, 2006.”
I gaze sadly at my plastic-ified smoothie. “That was, like, almost twenty years ago.”
“Well, at least we haven’t worn it out.”
With the smell of burnt plastic in my nostrils, I can’t even bring myself to taste my smoothie. I pour it down the drain. My stomach rumbles.
I root around in the freezer, extract a loaf of bread, and pop two slices in the toaster. This feels like a negative omen of sorts. I never have toast before work. I always have a smoothie.
As I scrape some butter onto my toast, I glance at the microwave clock and let out a squeak.
It’s almost ten thirty already. Time for my virtual yoga class.
I cram the toast in my mouth, gulp down a small glass of orange juice—it’s heavy on the pulp—and try to find the optimal place to set up.
I don’t have my yoga mat with me, but a blanket will work in a pinch.
I scoot the coffee table out of the way and spread a blanket in the middle of the living room.
A sense of peace settles over me as my usual yoga instructor greets the class and starts moving through the flow.
When I stretch into the first downward dog, I look between my legs and see Gramps standing there, watching me.
“Ah!” I yelp and crash down onto one elbow.
“Don’t stop on my account.” Gramps grins and settles onto the sofa with a mug of coffee.
“What are you—Gramps, I’m trying to—” I splutter.
“Is this yoga?”
“What—of course this is yoga. What else would it be?”
“Please, continue. I’m here to watch and learn.”
I look from him to the instructor on my screen. I’ve completely lost the flow. A part of me would very much like to tell him to give me some space, to go to another room for the next forty-five minutes, but I rein it in. After all, I am in his living room.
“Do you want to try?” I ask brightly, patting the blanket next to me.
“Me? Goodness, no.”
“It’ll be good for you. A nice stretch. Get the blood flowing.”
“No, no. Please.” He waves a hand, telling me to carry on.
With a sigh, I try to get back into it. The teacher has already moved on to the second flow, so I’ve completely missed the first one.
And let me tell you, if you have never tried to do a one-woman yoga class in front of a watching grandpa, it is uncomfortable.
No, it is impossible. I can’t get back into the right headspace.
I fumble the moves. I don’t feel relaxed or stretched or anything.
During the final Savasana, as I try to relax into a naplike state, I can’t take it anymore.
Gramps doesn’t even have the courtesy to read a book or something.
He’s just watching, like I’m six and putting on a play for his entertainment.
I stand, roll up the blanket, and close my laptop.
“Finished already?” he asks.
“Yep!” I try to bite back the aggression in my tone.
“Looks like a lovely workout.”
“Mm-hmm. Lovely.” I head toward the bathroom.
“Angela does an exercise class, too. Down on the lawn. She’s very passionate about it. Maybe you could join her sometime.”
I stop at the bathroom door. The thought of joining a senior citizens’ workout class in the sticky heat is deeply unappealing, but not as much as the thought of repeating the yoga fiasco I’ve just experienced. “Maybe I will.”
“Wonderful. Enjoy your shower!”
Freshly bathed and dressed, I hunker down in my bedroom, door closed. I’ve pulled a kitchen chair up to my nightstand, which is cleared of everything except my laptop and a mug of Gramps’s bitter coffee. I miss my Nespresso machine.
As soon as I log on, Kat pings me.
Good morning! Sending everyone on the team a friendly reminder to submit your reports by the end of the day.
Oh boy. I choke down a gulp of coffee, then send her a thumbs-up emoji. I’ve definitely been slacking since I’ve been in Florida. I need to get it together today.
The hours pass slowly as I sift through dozens of unread emails, pausing here and there to add notes to my status reports for each project.
Around three—lunchtime in Seattle—I head to the kitchen to heat up my frozen pizza. I’m in a meeting—camera off—which I listen to with my noise-canceling headphones as I bustle around the kitchen. I pop the pizza in the oven and start the timer, then grab a bag of baby carrots from the fridge.
Gramps has materialized, and he’s leaning over the kitchen table peering at the faces on my laptop screen.
“Gramps!” I whip the headphones off one ear.
“Zoom meeting?” He sounds pleased with himself for knowing the terminology.
“Yes. And it’s, you know, my job. You didn’t touch anything, did you?” I scan the screen to make sure he didn’t turn on the camera or type anything in the chat box.
“Of course not.” He sounds slightly injured now.
“Sorry. Just—” I stop, because Kat is asking me a question. I jab the UNMUTE button. “No, Antonio’s team is behind by at least a week. They’ve already let Ben know, so he’s aware of the situation.”
From the other side of the table, Gramps mouths, Wow. Nice.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Before I can say anything, he meanders over to the oven and cracks it open to peek at my pizza.
“Did you make this?” he asks.
“It’s a frozen pizza from Foxy’s,” I whisper. “You can have some. When it’s done.” With one finger, I push the oven door closed.
“I couldn’t; it’s too close to dinnertime. Well, I’ll let you get back to work.” He goes to his bedroom and closes the door behind him.
I sigh with relief, and then feel guilty. Gramps isn’t really annoying me, it’s just that I don’t like to be interrupted while I’m working.
The timer pings, and I carefully transfer my pizza to a cutting board.
Half listening to the meeting, I search every drawer in the kitchen before accepting the fact that Gramps does not own a pizza cutter.
Grumpily, I cut the pizza with a knife instead, then eat it and a handful of baby carrots at the kitchen table.
By eight o’clock, I’ve managed to submit all my reports to Kat.
I could hear Gramps snoring after lunch, but I clamped my headphones back on and it successfully drowned out the noise.
By the time my workday is over, I’m angsty to get outside and feel the sun on my skin.
But standing on the balcony, I realize that the day is over.
It’s almost sunset, and it’s not a pretty one today, either.
The sky is full of rain-soaked clouds, threatening to overflow.
The air is still, humid, and crackling with the anticipation of a storm.
The pool deck and beach below are both empty.
I guess I might have to spend some time outdoors tomorrow morning, before my workday starts.
I don’t like it. It’s not my normal routine.
But I can’t be at the beach and not spend any time in the sun.
For now, I’m going to take my usual after-work walk, even if it means getting caught in a thunderstorm.