Chapter 13
My grandparents’ home is a short drive from Briarwood Academy, only about five minutes. When I was little, I’d pretend it was an enchanted castle. The stones and large windows fed my imagination. I’d make myself out to be a lost princess. It helped manage the sense of loss I felt when I’d watch the way my mom and grandparents interacted. So polite. Formal. No warmth. It was a stark comparison to how I would see other grandparents with their grandchildren at school. Every year my elementary school held grandparents” day. The classrooms would be filled with kids and one or even two loving and doting grandparents giving them adoring looks, while I sat alone. I never told my mom.
Once in the third grade, I thought I might work up enough courage to ask but chickened out. It is a day that is burned into memory. I’d snuck off from the annual Easter party. There were lots of wealthy families there. I wore my favorite blue dress. There weren’t many kids, and my mom had gotten sucked into a conversation with my great aunt Sweetie. Yes, that was her real name. Bored and feeling out of place, I hid in my grandfather’s study.
He came in and found me curled up in an armchair with a copy of the Briarwood Report. I was reading the editorial page. Glancing up to see him, I knew I’d be in trouble. However, instead of scolding me he asked if I found anything interesting. I told him that I found the editor’s report to be biased and lacking support. He laughed a great big laugh, then said, “I think you should tell him; he’s by the drink cart.” I flustered and hid under the paper. He didn’t push, just came, and sat at his desk while I read the paper. Occasionally, he would ask me a question, and I would answer.
At first, his presence was intimidating. After a while, I picked up on a warmth in his voice when he would ask questions or be surprised by my answers. Just as I’d worked up enough courage to invite him to Grandparents” Day, Mom came in and told us it was time to leave. She was on the verge of tears yet held her head high as always. Later I heard her on the phone with Gabriel and learned my grandmother had said something to upset her. That’s how every visit ended.
Now standing outside of my grandparent’s front door, Mom lacks her normal confidence. She’s gone back to the car three times, first for her keys, then her purse, then just to check if it was locked. Like it matters in this neighborhood. Standing side by side this time, I’m in a different blue dress and a white cardigan. Mom wears a black pencil skirt and a blue blouse, the same shade as my dress. We didn’t coordinate but do have similar styles. I’ve been told I’m her miniature several times. I don’t have to look over to tell she is nervous; I can sense it. “You know, to get something over with, you have to start” I offer up.
“Right,” she nods nervously but then turns back toward the driveway “Maybe I should make sure the car is locked again; I could have hit the unlock button by accident.”
“Mom,” I level “you’re stalling.”
“Am I?” she asks, smoothing her hands over her skirt.
“You are. It’s going to be okay. We’ve been here before.” Given there were always more people, and with a good amount of effort, my mom could avoid my grandparents altogether if she tried hard enough. “Just ring the bell,” I suggest. She takes a breath, nods, and then presses the doorbell. A long chime sounds, and only a moment passes before the door opens, and we are face to face with my grandfather himself. Odd. Anytime we have been here before, a maid opens the door. Yes, my grandparents are paid servants rich. Based on what my mom has said, paid well too.
“Welcome ladies. I wanted to be the first to greet you,” my grandfather wears a large smile. “Your mother is just in the sitting room. She’s finishing up preparing the drink cart.” He motions for us to come in and takes my mom’s purse hanging it on a coat rack by the door.
“Hi Grandpa” I add nervously.
“Thanks Dad” Mom says at the same time. The awkwardness could probably be felt at the neighbor”s house.
“Well, please follow me. We’re glad to have you here,” he says as we follow him into a sitting room off the main foyer. The room is decorated expertly. It’s the perfect mixture of antique furniture that screams old money but still holds a modern feel. My grandmother stands next to a gold drink cart with glass shelves. She could be on the cover of Home and Garden Magazine. Her hair like she just stepped out of a salon, perfectly styled with what can only be described as country club volume. She’s a small woman in heels, probably reaching 5’4. This must be where I get my height from. I don’t actually have a lot of memories of my grandmother. She’s always too busy at parties playing hostess. This is the first time I’ve looked at her properly. Clair Roberts.
She turns and smiles, “Welcome ladies. Please come in and make yourselves comfortable.” It seems rehearsed, like she’s only playing a part. Mom bristles. Grandpa guides us to a small loveseat. He takes a seat in a high-back chair. Grandma glides from the cart and places a martini in my mom’s hand. “Still your drink of choice?”
My mom looks surprised but then responds, “Yes, thank you.”
“Of course,” turning in my direction, she hands me a thin glass full of a reddish-tinted liquid, “A Shirley Temple for Amelia.” I take the glass.
“Thank you, Grandma.” I try to sound polite, but something feels off.
“Oh, they were your mom’s favorite when she was little. That is until she realized there was no alcohol in them. It was worse than when she found out Santa wasn’t real,” she laughs a little, and my mom blushes. It’s a sweet moment.
“Wait, Santa isn’t real?” I feign shock. My grandparents both stop laughing and stare at me in horror. It’s a joke I would make normally with my mom.
Mom laughs, breaking the tension, “She knows Santa isn’t real guys.” The relief on my grandparents’ faces makes me laugh too. “She’s sixteen.”
The pair of them recover, and I quickly realize that they probably aren’t around many children. Mom is an only child. Grandma sits tall in a matching high-back chair next to my grandfather but doesn’t seem to have relaxed as much as him. He is giddy.
“Of course,” Grandma’s composure returns. “Well, what are 16-year-old girls interested in these days? We don’t have much experience.”
“Claire,” my grandfather warns. The comment is a clear underhanded dig at Mom.
“What, Roland? I’m only trying to get to know our granddaughter.” I look to mom for a sign of how to respond but she looks like a lost teenager. I can tell she is regretting this. Coming here, I mean. I feel guilty for wanting this at what it is costing her.
In desperation to end the tension, I say “I’m not sure if I paint the typical portrait of the average teenager.” I begin, “School is my main priority, but I enjoy writing. When I’m not writing, I read various novels.” I pause thinking of what else to add, “I also like spending time with Mom and my best friend, Sarah Mae.” It feels like I’m reading off my CV, but I wasn’t sure what she was expecting with her question.
“A focused young woman. I’m impressed,” Grandma straightens in her seat. “Despite your upbringing”, was implied.
“Amelia is an excellent student and brilliant writer,” Mom boasts. It seems she has snapped out of feeling chided in hopes of coming to my defense if necessary. She won’t allow me to fall under Grandma’s scrutiny like her.
Grandpa joins in, “I’ve read several articles of Amelia’s in the Briarwood Report and City News. Such wisdom from a young person is a rarity. Though I’m not surprised. She’s been bright since childhood.” I feel awkward under his praise. “Your mother was bright too, not that I need to tell you that.” He turns to mom, “I’m quite impressed with your business model for your inn, to take such an old establishment and modernize it efficiently while maintaining the charm.”
“Thanks Dad” Mom”s eyes soften. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my grandmother calculating another comment. Before she can get the chance, I ask, “So grandma, what do you enjoy?” The question catches her off guard. It’s almost as if no one has ever asked her. I could have easily asked, “What toothpaste do you use?”
“Well, I run several charity organizations, I’m a member of an antiquing club, and I ,” she pauses, collecting herself, “I manage our home.” Her last words carry pride. It gives me some needed insight into her character.
“That sounds interesting. What charities do you work with? Mom just helped organize the town rummage sale to raise funds for the children’s library.” At my words, my grandmother’s eyebrows raise. She turns fully to my mom.
“What a noble cause, Elizabeth. Do you often help with charities?” I don’t miss how she dodges my question and takes my words as an opportunity to interrogate Mom.
“I help around town when I can.” Mom says humbly. I’m not sure why though. She runs most town events and is the first call when anyone needs help raising funds. “I mostly do the event planning for some of the local festivals and events. Proceeds either go to charities or town funds.”
“How interesting,” Grandma responds, sipping her own drink. I wish she would have picked a different word. A look passes between her and my mom. Something unspoken thickens the air in the room. I like to think I’m the only one who can speak to my mom through our eyes. This is bizarre.
A maid entering the room breaks whatever is transpiring between the two when she announces dinner is ready. The remainder of the evening plays out civilly enough. Grandpa asks lots of questions about school and the paper. Of course, I don’t share any Lisa or Ben related details. Mom and Grandma manage to converse without falling into anything resembling a WWE match, so I take that as a win. To an outsider, we look like a normal family. Everyone has baggage, right?