Chapter Eleven
Little has changed around Grandma’s place except the rent, which is actually—yes, I did the math again—sixty times higher than that.
Of course, this little building lacks the latest amenities: the gym on the main floor, the sparkling granite, the city views…
but there’s a great coffee shop across the street.
A few old houses still stand around the Isabella Arms, but they’re all threatened by applications for condos.
Grandma’s building squats slyly behind black metal fencing and trees that are cemented in, their heavy branches and thick roots threatening to overtake the whole thing.
When I get to the front door, I pass an antiquated air-conditioning unit propped outside a window. No HVAC here.
I climb the four flights of stairs, vaguely aware of the building’s settled, familiar smell.
Remnants of a nice, warm bowl of chicken soup.
Onions and potatoes and wilted flowers. All those cooking smells have put down roots, twisting into the old walls and original pipes.
When I was a kid, being on the fourth floor felt like I was on top of the world.
I know that sounds silly, especially considering the towers rising over the city today, but when I’m here, I feel like I’m home. Somehow, I feel younger.
“There she is!”
I give Grandma a careful squeeze—she is, understandably, a little fragile these days—then she reaches for the brown paper bag in my hand. I clutch it tighter. I’m not going to let her carry the bag. It’s too heavy.
“Did you get—”
“Of course. It wouldn’t be right without the chopsticks, Grandma.”
“And the—”
“Extra soy sauce. I think there are six little packets in there. More than enough. I know you’re hoarding more in that catch-all kitchen drawer by the fridge.”
She laughs. Hunched and taking wobbly steps, she leads me to her dining room, which is more familiar to me than my own. Her rose-patterned fine china plates are set in place, awaiting our messy meal of fried rice and chicken balls.
“I’m so happy you’re here, Bridget. Let’s dig in.”
While we eat, she talks about her bridge club, a friend of hers who recently passed away, and her best friend, Flo, who just had a great-grandson.
“Can you imagine that? Four generations! I still feel like I’m thirty-six some days. She’s only eighty, and I’m sure she feels the same way. Great-grandson! I can’t believe we got that old.”
“I’m gonna be twenty-nine next month,” I remind her.
Her lips tighten with annoyance. “No, that’s not possible. You’re only five, with pigtails and a Snow White dress.”
That brings back a tumble of memories, difficult for both of us.
Grandma’s mostly as sharp as a tack. I can’t really be surprised that she is starting to lose her memory at this age.
When she’s with me, I can usually guide her a bit.
I’m her only grandchild, and she’s my only grandmother, so I know most of her stories anyway.
Ever since I was little, she and I have been close, but twenty years ago, we were pushed even closer by a horrible car accident.
I was nine. My mother had taken me shopping for school clothes, and we were T-boned on the way to the mall by a drunk driver.
I was physically unharmed, and I remember nothing.
I must have blocked it out. Grandma told me my mother died instantly.
I went home with Grandma that night, and I stayed for nine years.
It must have been so difficult for her, losing her daughter and her freedom all at once.
Saddled with a kid when she was just starting to enjoy retirement.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but there are times I feel bitter toward my mother for leaving me. For both mine and Grandma’s sakes.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, Grandma reminds me that she didn’t have her mum, either. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
Grandma has a complicated and unpleasant backstory.
In 1930, in the heat of the Great Depression, when she was a few months old, she had been bundled in a basket and literally left at the doors of a church by a mother she never met.
She spent five years in an orphanage before she was finally adopted by a lovely couple, the Davises. With them, she lived a happy life.
At least I had my mother for nine years. I can’t imagine having no memories of her at all.
I know I should probably not say anything, but I can’t stop myself. “I wish Mom was here to tease me about being almost thirty.”
Grandma exhales quietly. “I wish she was here every day, dear. Wouldn’t the three of us have had fun.”
I swallow a crispy lump of lemon chicken. “If your biological mother were here to tease you, how old would she be?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m sure she’s been dead and buried a long time, Bridget.”
“We never talk about her. Do you ever think of her?”
“Why would I? No. She never thought of me.”
“You don’t know that she didn’t, Grandma. Maybe she was young and broke. Maybe she had no choice. Maybe she died after you were born.”
“Bridget. Enough.”
It makes me sad that she always ends the conversation there, but it’s her life, not mine. It’s just that now, with DNA testing, it’s possible to trace our ancestors and answer the questions that once seemed unanswerable. I would love to know more.
At this point, Grandma usually turns it around and asks about my love life, but I successfully skim past that tonight.
Her mind is stuck on a man I went out with three years ago and haven’t seen since.
I don’t really have much time for dating, and frankly, I don’t miss it that much.
Claudia keeps me busy, and I spend time at the gym when I’m not reading or binge-watching the latest shows.
I’m content. Not swept up in romance, but satisfied nonetheless.
Besides, I’m sure I could grab a date with good old Jack Samson if I wanted.
He’s hot, but he knows it. I scowl, thinking of him.
An unexpectedly warm thought comes to me of Mr. Buchanan, but I push it away.
He’s probably not interested. Still, I can’t stop thinking about his careful smile, and how it fills his eyes.
“Drink your tea before it cools.” She sips her own. “Tell me what you are doing at work now. Light switches and fire alarms again?”
I give her a side-eye. “Those are obviously included, but there’s a lot more, Grandma.”
My phone vibrates with a text, but I ignore it and help myself to more rice. I’m off the clock, and the last person I want to talk with is Claudia.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asks.
“I wasn’t going to. I’m here with you.” Grandma’s expression makes me laugh. “Why? Do you want me to?”
“Your life is so much more interesting than mine, Bridget. Listening to your stories cheers me up.”
“Well, spending an evening with you cheers me up, so there.”
She heaves a deep sigh, then leans over her plate.
“Fine.” I pull my phone out. It’s not Claudia after all. Suddenly, I’m glad Grandma talked me into checking.
MB: Hello, Ms. Kelly. I found something interesting pertaining to our discussion today, and I wondered if you’d like to come by and see it tomorrow.
My heart lifts at the idea. I start to reply, then Mr. Buchanan’s text lights up again.
MB: Or maybe we could have a cup of coffee and I could bring the information? If you’re not too busy. No pressure.
I can almost picture him texting, frowning at the keys, sweating over the invitation. He’s charmingly awkward. I can’t leave him hanging.
BK: Coffee sounds nice. When?
MB: Tomorrow 11:00 a.m.? I can send you the coordinates for a coffee shop near here…
…
…
Or if your morning is busy, we could have lunch.
“Oh, Mr. Buchanan,” I murmur. “How daring.”
“What?” Grandma demands. “Who is it? Why are you smiling that way?”
“What way?” I blush. “I’m not. It’s just work.”
“I don’t believe you,” she sings. “I bet it’s a man.”
“You’re right.”
“A handsome man.”
I grin. “Right again.”
“Is he smart?”
“Very.”
“Oh, that’s icing on the cake. Go ahead and answer him. I’ll wait.”
BK: Lunch sounds very nice. What would you think about coming to the hotel? Reign has a great menu. Oh, and lunch is on me.
MB: I can’t let you pay!
BK: It’s a business write-off. You are doing me a favour. I’ll make us a reservation at Reign at 12:00 tomorrow, okay?
MB: I am looking forward to seeing you then.
As am I, I think.
Grandma’s expression is priceless. Like she’s a kid waiting on a secret. “Well? What did he say?”
“I have a lunch date tomorrow.”
She claps her hands together. “With a handsome and smart man. What’s his name?”
“Mr. Buchanan.”
“Ooh. I had a teacher named Mr. Buchanan, but he wasn’t even remotely handsome.” She sighs dreamily, which is very sweet on a ninety-four-year-old woman. “A lunch date. Very romantic.”
“It’s not supposed to be romantic, Grandma. It’s a work lunch. He’s doing some research for me.”
“I think it will be romantic anyway. I have a good feeling about it. Oh dear. I cannot remember the last time I did anything romantic. Everyone deserves a little fun in their lives. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl, as they say.”
Grandma’s lonely, and it’s only getting worse as her friends die one by one.
I’m glad she has me, but frankly, I’m just as glad that I have her.
I can’t imagine not having her. When she’s finished eating, I dump the used chopsticks and mostly empty containers back in the paper bag they came in, then I collect our plates and carefully wash the fine china in the sink, trying not to think about a future without her.
It’s like she reads my mind. “Life goes awfully quickly, Bridget.” She hands me a towel to dry the dishes. As I dry, she places them back in the cupboard and offers advice. “Enjoy every minute you can. There is little that makes me happier than seeing you content, dear.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I wish your mother was here to see how wonderful you turned out.”
My vision blurs, and I fight the urge to cry. “Aw, Grandma. I feel the same way about you.”