Chapter Nine
For a week I’ve faked cheeriness and confidence in an attempt to hide the failure that radiates from me like a beacon, warning other ships and senior citizens to beware of coming this way.
Occupancy rates, property expenses, and panic screech through my head with a growing urgency, my fatigued neural pathways desperate for a break from the obsessive-compulsive cycle I’m stuck in.
It’s the first thought in my head when I wake up and in the quiet moments while doing my hair or brushing my teeth.
Between bites of oatmeal and emails and the hours I spend tossing and turning in my sheets, struggling to fall asleep.
“It’s Sunday,” Grandma Helen says when she finds me on the couch sipping lukewarm coffee, laptop in front of me, notebooks and scribbled papers scattered across several surfaces. Fifi snoozes atop a crinkly pile and occasionally cracks her giant blue eye to see if I’m still freaking out.
“Exactly.” I click between screens, spreadsheets and internet tabs and the running text thread with me and my siblings. “Another week’s passed without much progress.”
One of the perks of OCD is my brain comes at a problem from every angle, again and again, until I come up with a solution; one of the downsides of OCD is my brain comes at a problem from every angle, again and again, until I come up with a solution.
I’m aware it looks like I’m mapping out a crime scene with red string and too much caffeine, but given the burst of nettlesome texts from King EZ and three out of four siblings requesting advice, all the streams are crossing.
Will’s decided to take summer classes but is having doubts about trying to finish college faster now that he’s overwhelmed; my sisters are arguing with mom about modesty of prom dresses; and my youngest brother is just counting down his last days of elementary school while my mother laments what she’s going to do with him all summer.
Not sure what the basketball player who got me fired wants, but it’s no longer my job to cater to his every whim, so I’m doing my best to ignore him.
“When’s the last time you played the piano?” Grandma Helen asks. “I still have all your sheet music in the bench.”
“I gave up the piano—it caused too many fights with my mom, and I don’t have time to tinker with keys, anyway. It’s not like playing a song will make the stress go away.”
“Well, you’ve got to do something to relax your brain, Mia. This is too much.” She relocates the printed monthly reports and my yellow legal pad of ideas to another cushion, and Fifi’s climbing onto her lap before she’s fully settled. “You’re stressed and not sleeping.”
Yeah, that’s the downside to living with Grandma Helen.
I can’t hide the nervous twirl of my hair, the darkening circles beneath my eyes, or the insomnia that leaves me pacing and rummaging for snacks at odd hours of the night.
She pats my thigh. “You’re not responsible for the whole property—if I knew Jan would put that on you, I never would’ve suggested you for the position. ”
“Then I’d be unemployed, and if you think I’m stressed now, that’d be even worse.”
“Funny, I think it’d be good for you to take a nice, long break. If you’ll recall, having a job while you spend the summer with me was your requirement, not mine.” She clucks her tongue. “I’m not going to charge you rent or force you to dance for your dinner.”
“No, that’s Rita’s requirement.” Relaxing my eyes causes my vision to split in two, and I rub my fingers over my throbbing temples.
I’ve hesitated to speak my concerns for the property aloud, but the lid on my internal pressure cooker rocks, and out it comes.
“And what happens if Jan sells to another buyer who decides to serve eviction notices and bulldoze the property?”
“What if the sun flies off its orbit?” Grandma fires back, and of course she thinks I’m jumping to worst-case scenarios.
“We all die,” I say, not sure why I get a sigh for giving the correct answer.
“Such extremes, with you. There are dozens of other, less dire variations that won’t leave me homeless.
I’m certainly not worried about it.” Fifi decides too much focus is on me and bumps her furry forehead to Grandma’s chin, causing her to change to stroking her whiskered cheeks.
“All you’re doing is ruining today by borrowing trouble from tomorrow. ”
That just frustrates me on multiple levels, similar to whenever anyone tells me to calm down. For one thing, if I prepare thoroughly enough, there shouldn’t be any trouble, and while I appreciate moments of levity in my whirlwind of a life, super chill people don’t always get shit done.
The year-long relationship with a man I ended up financially supporting proved as much.
Do I envy them and their blasé attitudes? Wish for the ability to shrug it off with an “it’ll all work out” and truly believe it?
Of course I fucking do. But it’s kind of like telling me the moon is just a short rocket-ship trip away.
Maybe not impossible, but a destination that requires heaps of planning and effort.
And no, I can’t relax on the ride over, because everyone will expect me to set up camp once we land, so I might as well figure out how.
“Your generation’s always in such a tizzy,” Grandma Helen continues, “shouting about this and that, rushing through the minutia to get more work done, not realizing you’re missing out on a lot of the best parts.”
“I really don’t have the bandwidth for a generational debate right now.
” I hunch over the coffee table to gather and collate stacks, and ah, there it is, the original thing that sent me into a tizzy at six-thirty a.m. “But if you and your cohorts aren’t creating a fuss, then why is this on the front page of the Herald Sun? ”
Grannies Gone Wild! This group of senior women leads the pack on activism…and STIs!
A picture of the protest I’d witnessed my first day here emblazons the page. It’s farther away than the news crew wanted, I’m sure, leaving features slightly grainy.
“What? It’s no fun when you go to jump in and swim, only to have a single square foot of space to yourself.
” Grandma Helen stands, shifting Fifi to her shoulder as she does so, which offends the cat so badly she leaps to the floor and sashays away.
“That’s why we were protesting in our underwear, if you’ll recall. ”
“Because of that fact, I’ll never not recall.”
“Well, you’re about to get a refresher course anyway. Get on your swimsuit, Mama Mia, ’cause like it or not—”
The doorbell interrupts, ringing at such a high volume it resounds through my head for a couple of extra seconds, but it doesn’t stop her from adding, “You’re coming with me and the gals to the pool.”
…
I angle the screen of the laptop, rubbery slats of the beach chair pinching my booty cheeks as I crank up the brightness and attempt to read the words through the glare of the noonday sun.
As a kid, I lived for summer. Now that a waterslide of sweat forms between my boobs and along my spine, I’ve rethought my adoration.
Droplets splatter my shins as someone jumps into the pool, the residents here as serious about their cannonballs as the whippersnappers they wanted to keep out.
Diving into the crystalline oasis for a swim could totally be their middle ground, but the fogies are too damn stubborn to even consider sharing.
But they’re fine with me, and have been for over a decade. Same went for all the grandchildren, who were immediately folded into the protection of the family.
Water sluices and laps at the sides of the pool, and several of the Cronies call my name and holler at me to “Come on in already.”
While we compromised on bringing my computer along—and by that, I mean they said I couldn’t, I informed them they couldn’t tell me what to do while slathering on sunscreen as instructed.
The last thing I want to do is hold another seminar, but maybe if I format it into more of a workshop, where we’re all teaching one another and the material comes from my heart rather than slides from the CDC…
I want to groan at my own suggestion, but statistics show that people with higher self-esteem practice safe sex more frequently. Self-love’s also a subject I’m passionate about, even if it’s far easier to apply to others than myself.
Shadows fall over me, two dark profiles that drip water, and finally, I can see my laptop screen clearly enough to read the words I’ve typed in. “Stay right…” My fingers fly furiously across the keyboard as I input “Workshop on body positivity?” to my list of to-dos. “There.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds before you’re going in the water.” Grandma says in the same tone she uses when she whips out my middle name, which hasn’t happened in years. “If you’re still holding the computer, don’t think I’ll spare it or you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say, my heart skipping beats as I rush to save, save, save. “Besides, it’s not like you could actually lift me.”
“Damn,” Wanda adds, playing her role as hype woman to perfection. “You’d better listen, Mia Bo-bina. You poke Mt. Saint Helens again and she’s likely to blow her top.”
They hoot and holler, Tia Rita taunting and teasing my grandmother in a way that’ll only fire her up and work against my favor.
A yelp escapes as Grandma Helen lunges and manacles my ankle and, realizing she doesn’t need to lift when dragging’s an option, I slam my laptop closed.
Thirty-two seconds later, I’m waist deep in the pool, a fruity drink with an umbrella in hand. While it’s melty from waiting for me, it hits the spot without freezing my brain. “So, what are we chatting about?”
“About how you promised to spend time with us, and you’ve missed every event this week,” Grandma Helen says, and I know I asked, but haven’t we fully covered that subject already?