Chapter Eighty Kiersten
Chapter Eighty
Kiersten
Kiersten rang the doorbell and then waited for what felt like a very long time before Lillian eventually stumped into the foyer with the help of a cane and squinted at her through the storm door.
Her wrinkled face broke into a wide smile, and she pushed the door open. “It’s Johnny’s mom.”
Kiersten smiled back. Johnny and Bella, Piper’s youngest daughter, had latched on to Lillian like barnacles. When she came out to sit on her porch in the afternoons, they usually ran over to swing on her porch swing while Lillian told them stories about her childhood during and after World War II.
Whenever one of the kids tattled on someone, Johnny shot them a scornful look and informed them that loose lips sink ships.
Kiersten held up the plate of cookies she’d made that morning. She actually had both unexpired baking soda and baking powder in her pantry, thanks to Aspen’s Happy House Life Table of Sustenance system.
“Chocolate chip,” she said. “A small thank-you for all the hours you’ve spend playing UNO with Johnny and Bella these past few weeks.”
“They are delightful companions.” Lillian led her into the kitchen and gestured toward the table with her cane. “Even though Johnny does have a propensity to make a person draw four the moment you utter the word UNO.”
Kiersten felt like she’d walked into a museum or her grandmother’s house.
Colorful braided rag rugs dotted the floor, and brown paneling enclosed the seating area in the kitchen, where a large picture window looked out on the enormous yard on the backside of the house.
Framed photos adorned the paneled walls depicting the many phases of a long life.
A black-and-white photo of a bride and groom, faintly colored pictures of that same bride a few years later, holding babies, and then toddlers on her lap.
Color graduation photos with hairstyles that ran the gamut from the straight tresses of the 1970s to the permed pyramids of the 1980s.
Then more baby, first-day-of-school, graduation, and wedding photos.
Photographic proof that while hair, clothes, music, and politics changed, the chapters of family life remained the same.
“I just made a pot of coffee,” Lillian said. “Would you like some?”
Kiersten smiled. Her own grandmother also insisted on drinking coffee every afternoon at four o’clock and refused to listen to modern theories about good sleep hygiene and avoiding caffeine in the afternoon.
“I’d love some. Thank you.”
Lillian set a delicate teacup in front of Kiersten with trembling hands.
Once again she was struck by the little grace notes that older people brought to life.
Why did she only drink coffee from the garish and indestructible mugs they seemed to buy every time they visited a tourist attraction, like the Grand Canyon? Why didn’t she ever use the beautiful old teacups and china plates she’d inherited from her grandmother?
Another thing Aspen was right about. Slowing down. Finding beauty in old things. Making time to add a few lovely touches to an afternoon cup of coffee. She silently resolved to do better.
Lillian eased herself into a chair beside the ancient kitchen table with a chrome base and a yellow Formica top.
“Is this the kitchen table you had when your kids were young?” Kiersten asked.
“It is.” Lillian ran her hands over the scratched yellow surface.
“That young real estate man tried to buy it the other day. He’s always over here, asking me to sell my stereo or my dining room set.
Says they’re mid-century something or other and they’re worth a lot of money.
He wants my house too. But I’m not selling. They can wait until I’m dead.”
“Who’s that?”
She gestured east with a wrinkled hand. “The young man. Not Chip. But the other one. His son. Trey, they call him.”
“He wants to buy your house?”
She nodded. “He says the neighborhood isn’t safe anymore. He found this hanging on the knob on my front door when I was in Chicago.”
The old woman rose from the table and rummaged in a drawer; then she pulled out what appeared to be a coat hanger, yarn, and a scrap of cloth, and tossed it onto the Formica tabletop.
Kiersten held the hanger aloft by the tips of her fingers. “A . . . noose?”