Chapter 2
TWO
LYNETTE STANFORD
Austin, Texas
“Nothing says I love Granny more than hauling my hips into a dark attic on a Friday.”
My sisters laughed as if something was funny.
“Any day it’s a ‘no’ for me.” Bria’s voice crackled across the phone from the other side of the globe. Big sis was a woman-warrior, an Air Force major who would opt for military skirmishes over a trip into our grandparents’ attic.
Our youngest sister, Shay, added her two cents. “Nette, you couldn’t pay me. Not with the dust, must, and four-legged demons.”
Shay was miles away in the Sunshine State, still I pictured her shuddering. Baby sis was deathly afraid of rodents. I wasn’t fond of the critters, but I’d suffer them over arachnids. Nothing needed eight legs to get from point A to B. Spiders were satanic and unnecessary.
“Uncle Ross isn’t here to do it.” I adjusted my earbuds, pocketed my phone, and pulled my honey-kissed, shoulder-length faux hair into a ponytail.
My medium brown frame was average height, forcing me to use a stepladder to reach the overhead strap to lower the attic ladder.
“He and Aunt Bert are in Houston. So, I’m the lucky winner. ”
Mama’s sister, Bertina, and her husband, Ross, lived six blocks from my grandparents.
Since Granddad’s passing last year, Mama and Aunt Bert had assumed responsibility for Granny’s daily wellbeing.
Retired healthcare professionals, they had skills to care for their mother, who’d been tossed into the throes of dementia.
That didn’t mean they were fully prepared for it. Mentally. Emotionally.
Witnessing Granny’s rapid decline was heartbreaking.
I tested the ladder’s bottom rung with the toe of my size-seven memory foam Skecher, proud of our family’s pitching in and banding together.
One of the men typically did the heavy lifts.
I was here after calling Mama on my way home from work and hearing Granny in the background sounding ultra distressed.
I can’t lose them, LaVeda. You have to find my memory keepers!
I’d rerouted myself when, despite multiple efforts, Mama couldn’t calm Granny.
I wasn’t the cavalry to the rescue. I simply loved my grandmother to pieces.
Coming to her aid was natural. And a reaction born of personal experience.
My eleven-year-old son, Justus, was recently diagnosed as neurodivergent.
Specifically autistic. Calming him when triggered wasn’t always easy, and in that moment Granny’s distress felt familiar like the meltdowns he experienced.
Thinking added support was needed, I’d executed a U-turn and headed to Granny’s.
It was mid-afternoon. I’d worked a half-day thanks to the end of parent–teacher conference week.
As a fourth-grade teacher my early dismissal was a reward for five days of hecticness, including dealing with no-shows and attitudinal parents.
I had papers to grade, but pushed them aside, opting to spend time with my child.
I’d planned to take Justus to the latest Avengers flick, but Granny’s episode interfered.
Thankfully, Justus wasn’t triggered by the abrupt change in plans. His triggering was something we were both working on managing and understanding. Apparently, his love for his great-grandmother trumped the movies. Or at least made our postponement non-disruptive.
Now, there I was proud of my son’s developing coping skills and wanting a Hazmat suit to protect me from attic cooties. “Okay, I’m going in and y’all’re going with me.”
“Look at Miss Independent learning to lean.”
“Bria, please. Nette only called ’cause she’s scared of the dark.”
“Lies.” I challenged Shay’s inaccuracy and ignored Bria’s comment. My sisters stayed on me about failing to ask for help when needed. Might’ve held merit, but it wasn’t time for self-exploration. I had an attic to conquer.
“I pray you don’t come up missing.”
I laughed at Shay’s twisted humor. “Add my waiting to hear if I got into grad school, and not getting light-headed when I climb into this attic, to your problematic prayer list.”
“Universities are notoriously slow, but your admission’s a done deal. You’re still having headaches?” Bria’s big sister radar was in effect.
I reminded her I was mildly claustrophobic to deflect attention from recurring headaches.
Thanks to upping my coffee consumption and acetaminophen, I’d been headache-free this week.
There was zero need to have the spotlight on me or be an alarmist. Plus, Granny’s health took precedence over migraines.
And the increased acid reflux I didn’t mention.
As for grad school, I was the only member of my immediate family without an advanced degree. Pursuing a master’s felt mandatory.
I mounted the ladder crediting myself for a two-decade career in education, and a bachelor’s degree.
Such was the rational minimum for a daughter of my parents.
Daddy had been an associate vice provost with two doctorate degrees.
Mama, Bria, and Shay all had their master’s, and Bria was contemplating following in Daddy’s footsteps and earning her PhD.
My sisters were happily married homeowners.
Without children with special needs. Then there was me.
“Get your happy hips to the doctor if those headaches keep happening.” Bria’s insistence ended my twisted musing. “Don’t wind up…”
My mind filled in what she left unspoken. Like Daddy.
I engaged my phone’s flashlight, hating the hypertension that robbed us of our father in my sophomore year of college.
I slapped aside cobwebs as I cleared the landing, reassuring myself the occasional headache wasn’t the same as Daddy’s symptoms. There was no dizziness, chest pains, or difficulty breathing.
But same as Daddy, I was stubborn. Overly busy.
Unlike Daddy, I was a single woman co-parenting.
Consequently, my most basic needs took a backseat.
Missing work for a doctor’s appointment for symptoms Tylenol and Tums managed felt unnecessary. Still, I told Bria I’d seek care if needed to circumvent her worrying while cautiously entering my grandparents’ vault-to-antiquity.
Slowly, I panned light across the space, fanning away dust clouds my entry created. “It’s worse than I remember. It’s like I’m at a hoarders’ convention.”
Thank God Fridays were dress-down day. Only my school t-shirt and flare-leg jeans were at risk of being attic-infested.
“Girl, get what you’re looking for and hurry up.”
Shay was the baby, but chick was demanding.
I chose not to remind her of our sibling hierarchy and did as instructed.
I had zero desire to prolong being in an attic stuffed with furniture.
Crates. Granny’s Singer sewing machine from her professional seamstress days.
Bric-a-brac and outdated sports equipment.
And too many spider webs for anybody’s well-being.
“Granny’s disease is advancing, huh, sis? Got you up in the attic hoping to calm her with old relics. I hate this illness.”
Bria’s tone mirrored my heart’s wish to wipe away the disease impacting our beloved with memory loss and fits of irrationality.
Part of me had trouble processing Terracina Braxton—widow of one, mother of five, grandmother to thirty-three, great grand of twenty, and great-great to eight—had gone from spry, confident, and sweet-spirited to forgetful, finicky, and often cranky.
Something I’d been forced to accept after Justus’ diagnosis was reality could be a beast, but it was still reality and had to be dealt with.
I inhaled through my nostrils, let air seep through my lips.
“Yeah, it’s progressing, big sis.” My siblings and I had a Sister Circle call on Saturdays, but I’d called a day early.
I needed support for a task I didn’t want to complete, one that highlighted the steady decline of our beloved.
Shay was an hour ahead in Florida. Bria was already sliding into a new day on the other side of creation.
Still, my sisters were there. Their presence lightened the task even if it couldn’t negate the truth of our grandmother’s condition that slammed us in the heart and hurt like hell.
Bria hissed an expletive. “Makes me wanna go AWOL so I can come home and help.”
“Nobody’s tryna bail your butt outta soldier jail.”
Shame on me for laughing at Shay’s ridiculousness versus focusing on my darkened trek. In a split-second lapse of vigilance, I stumbled over something, dropped my phone, and might’ve landed on my face. Except for her saving grace.
Cloaked in shadows, she was dainty yet sturdy. My arms flailed about her. Her solidity kept me from falling. Her scent was foreign or perhaps forgotten—faded sachets and stale antiquity. Her touch and clothing were brittle. Her skin wasn’t skin. She was faceless. Inhuman.
A scream ripped out of me as I scuttled sideways to escape her otherworldly embrace. Somewhere in the attic my phone lay in the dark, and I could hear my sisters yelling my name. Justus calling me took precedence.
“Mom!” The sound of running feet was followed by my son mounting the ladder, rushing toward me. “What’s wrong?”
“Gimme your phone!” I grabbed it when he was within reach, aimed its flashlight at the unknown entity.
The pounding of my heart lessened when I saw the fantastic phantom was Granny’s old dress dummy from her seamstress era.
The thing had the nerve to be fully dressed and sporting one of her hats as if ready for Sunday morning service.
“Nette… you okay?” Mama’s voice floated up from the base of the attic stairs.
Justus responded before I could. “Yes, Nana! Mom’s just scared of mannequins.”
“Lord, today. Nette, Baby J, y’all finish up and come outta there.”
Justus typically disliked derivations of his name. His grandmothers and aunts were his exceptions. “Okay, Nana.”
I laughed, relieved. “It’s just Granny’s dress dummy. In the dark it looked like a person.”
My son patted my shoulder as if soothing an infant. “It isn’t.”