June: A Modern Tale

15

… We must listen to our destiny, the song was swinging through her thoughts, "and ignore words that perplex … hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm …" She could feel the melody—it was rocking her, like when, as a child, she sat on her grandmother’s lap in the crusted wooden rocking chair, squeaking, squeaking, as it lulled her, back and forth, back and forth. The song was pulling her heart back to her grandmother’s front porch, where, among boxes of pansies lining the steps, and hanging baskets of geraniums, she rested easy in its safe haven Lullaby, la la la la, la la la, lullabye … the soft chorus filtering through her mind like the soft winds she remembered rustling the leaves in the summer trees that surrounded her grandmother’s house.

My grandma had been right. She had said it differently from the song. The melody was from The Boxer, but my grandma often made up her own lyrics to the tunes she loved, and that’s how I remembered them. My grandma also coined phrases, and one that stuck with me was, Small minds only look under the covers, they won’t look up at what soars in the skies. I did not fully understand that as a child living with her. I did not fully understand when I listened to Simon & Garfunkle played on the radio at my new friend Lizanne’s house—the modern house, with laminate floors, sheer blinds, more than one bathroom and matching appliances in the kitchen.

I had loved my Grandma’s house until Lizanne’s family moved in. Their house was custom built by a developer, with a manicured lawn and a sidewalk and a paved street out front. So my Grandma became old, and old fashioned. Her once quaint house, tiny, with a ringer-washer, one bathroom with only a tub and toilet, lit by a single bulb dangling from a wire above, was old and unproud. The floors were pocked wood slats, the walls covered in yellowing flower-bouquet wallpaper. Her couch, horse-hair filled, had cushions so heavy they could not be easily lifted. Doilies were the resting place for arms and lamps and vases.

My Grandma’s house smelled of white vinegar and borax and her own lavender-oil perfume. Outside, the musky dirt, usually damp and sometimes sludgy with fruit rotting beneath the trees, filled my nose heavily, deeply.

Lizanne’s house had large, window-lit rooms and wall-to-wall carpeting. The living room boasted a wall of brick, painted white, for the unused fireplace. I breathed in the potent fresh-paint smell, teasing my senses. She had a bedroom of her own with a white headboard and a flowered spread, the same fabric as the drapes. All the furniture matched, and she had her own closet behind a door, a door with a full-length mirror that Lizanne smiled into each time she passed by.

Lizanne had a dollhouse with floors and windows and teeny tiny furniture. She told me that I could not play with it. It was too fancy and I was too clumsy. My Grandma said that was not true, but I was sure that Lizanne knew better, being so modern and all.

I saw my worn and creased Mary Jane shoes as childish when Lizanne wore shiny patent leather shoes and white lace-edged cotton socks. And Lizanne wore a petticoat under her flared skirt. I wore a shift that my Grandma had sewn special for me out of material she found at the general store in the next town over.

You do not have to be ‘modern’ to be happy, my Grandma told me. But I didn’t believe that. I thought Lizanne must be the happiest girl in the world, what with everything so new. New clothes, new furniture, new toys, even a new house. I thought I must have her as my best friend so that I could feel new. I did feel new, simply being in her house.

Lizanne’s mother, though always smiling, did not seem happy, but I must be wrong. She had a new life since marrying Lizanne’s father. He took care of her in every way, making sure that she had the best of everything—the finest jewelry, the most fashionable clothes, her hair styled. She wore red lipstick and even painted fingernails. I thought she was so very beautiful. Lizanne did not think so. My real mother was beautiful, she would correct me. She was way more beautiful. I wondered how that could be, but then I had only lived with my Grandma, who had no TV so I didn’t see the modern celebrities and vogue models.

Come on in, Lizanne’s mother regularly invited me. Are you hungry, Chloe? she always asked.

No ma’am, thank you. My Grandma cooked up biscuits an’ gravy this mornin’. My Grandma says that’ll keep me full ‘till dinner time.

Well, of course, Lizanne’s mother would say, her eyes tilted like she had a question. Maybe you would like some lemonade, I just made some. It’s not from real lemons mind you, it’s a mix, but it’s very good. Lizanne always says you can’t tell the difference.

Oh, well, yes ma’am, I might like that. I watched as she poured it from a glass pitcher into an etched glass tumbler, already full of ice. I loved how the yellow color showed off the shiny cubes. Sure is good, I would tell her shyly.

Glad you like it, Chloe.

Oh, yes ma’am. It’s so sweet. My Grandma’s makes my mouth get real tight and my lips tingle. Grandma says that’s because lemons are special.

Your Grandma says all kinds of things, Lizanne would scoff. She says you should sleep with your windows open, and that you should cook in bacon grease. Your Grandma is old.

I never knew what to say when Lizanne said those things about my Grandma. And I guess her mother didn’t know what to say either. She would blush, her cheeks pinking, smile, and change the subject.

Things changed drastically when my Grandma passed. I found her in her bed, all nestled under her hand-made quilt, the one she made from the fabric of clothing people gave her from their closets. Her pillow was all fluffed under her head, its down casing sneaking out from the embroidered edges. She looked so peaceful, like she was in the kindest dream. She always told me that a good life gave good dreams.

It was unusual that she was not already up that morning. She was always up before me. I would wake to the smell of toast or muffins, cornmeal or biscuits, or eggs and bacon. I’d hear the tinkling of her spoon in the one mug she used for her tea. She shuffled across the floor in her worn slippers, shuup, shuup, shuup. I could hear her setting up the dishes, warmed over the griddle on the gas stove.

Now I miss those sounds. I miss the smells rushing to my bedroom. I miss the wood floor under my feet as I slipped out of my own bed, curling back the quilt my Grandma had made— the patchwork complex, with pinwheels rather than squares, and made of soft cotton in pinks and blues. I miss stepping out of my nightgown and into my day clothes, always freshly laundered. I miss pulling the string to turn on the bulb overhead in the bathroom, and splashing cool water onto my face, then looking at it in the tiny mirror with the edges splotched dark where the background had wasted away under the glass.

I had walked to her room and knocked gently on her door, Grandma? You up Grandma? No answer. Grandma? I called with more than a whisper. Still no answer. I slipped the door open just enough to see her lying on her bed. Grandma? You okay? I tiptoed across the room and looked down at her still face. I knew. I knew she was gone. I fell to my knees on the floor, bent my head until it rested on the mattress and reached my arms across the quilt to hold her cool hand.

Oh, Grandma.

I was not yet a teenager, twelve in fact, and had no other family, so I was placed in a foster home in the next county. Lizanne never called me after the funeral. I heard it said that she didn’t want to be near anyone who had someone die in their house. She thought it awful that I had found my Grandma dead in her bed. I thought, though I was tremendously sad, there was no better way for my Grandma to pass.

I finished high school with no friends. My counselor said that I was too smart to not go further in school. For that reason I enrolled at the local community college. My foster parents couldn’t afford it, so I got a job sewing clothes at a dry cleaner who also offered alterations. I had learned to sew from my Grandma and I thought of her often as I stitched a hem or tucked a seam. I missed her all the time.

After finishing my first two years, I moved away to go to Oberlin College, in Ohio. I wanted to go to a small college, and not having a particular field of interest, I was sure a liberal arts college would suit me just fine. I found work in the student library and gladly spent my time between classes in its quiet halls, surrounded more by books than by students.

The next two years passed quickly and I graduated at the top of my class. I felt deeply pained that my Grandma wasn’t there to see me receive my diploma. She would have been so proud. She had told me, even as a child, that education was the way to do the most good for the most people. You get educated and you can share all your blessings in a bigger world, she promised. Here I am, Grandma. I got educated, now I just have to find thatbigger world.

I had thought, the whole time I was in school, that I would know what to do when I finished. I thought I’d find the bigger world easily, but I did not. I had my bachelors degree but no direction to go. I missed my Grandma. She would have tipped me toward some worthwhile cause. She would have told me something that would keep me from veering off an even path.

I applied for an administrative position at a modest, small-town mental health hospital, near where I’d grown up. It was a low-paying assignment under a scholarship grant. There I learned a lot about a bigger world. Here I worked with people whose lives were actually miniscule. Some who could only imagine stepping out the door of their own house. They couldn’t handle getting out into a bigger world. Others who talked to the walls of their rooms or sat on the floor in the hallways, cringing at anyone’s approach.

I decided that I wanted to be more involved and so enrolled in a specialized program to become a mental health counselor. I continued working in that hospital as I progressed through my training. Under the supervision of a resident therapist, Daneen Sutter, I was allowed to do my thesis with one of the patients—a woman only slightly younger than I. Her name was June. She had arrived, her life in ruin, after returning from service to the Army in Afghanistan. She was alone. She would not talk. She stared into space in whatever room she was in, not interested in engaging in any activity or social interaction. She sat when meals were offered and kept her blank gaze straight ahead. She had to be fed like a small child. Someone had to bathe her. Someone had to dress her. She existed only in her own small world after having lived in a bigger world that left her behind.

I asked the staff why no one ever came to visit her at the hospital. They told me that the only family she had was a grandmother who lived in an even smaller town than this one, somewhere in Virginia.

A Grandmother, I thought. She has a grandmother … I knew a loving grandmother might make all the difference in the world. I asked if I could contact her, and with the hospital’s permission, I wrote to June’s grandmother and asked if I might visit her and talk with her about her granddaughter. She answered some time later, saying she would gladly see me.

June, I’m going to go see your grandmother. I stopped by her room after breakfast—scrambled eggs and home-fried potatoes that had been slipped into her silent lips. I wrote her a letter, June, and now I’m going to go visit her. Do you remember your grandmother, June?

I wasn’t surprised that there was no response; this was to be expected. Still I believed she was listening. I hoped that somewhere in the back of her mind a loving grandmother may trigger an inkling, a sliver of change.

My Grandma raised me, I told her in quiet confidence. She was the most important person in my life. She died though, June, and I still miss her terribly. Maybe you miss your grandmother, too. Do you miss her? I asked. I watched her face for a flicker, there was none.

That’s okay, June, I’ll visit her and then come back and tell you all about it.

Three weeks later I found myself in the deep woods at the spit of a town called Big Chimney, Virginia, population, 572. I arrived