moments like that, when it was quiet after something happened, that felt frighteningly still in the desert.
Edna started to observe things in this place where almost nothing happened, and she attributed her heightened awareness to the media blackout she lived in. Her mind thirsted for new facts. Sometimes a certain cactus would bend over one way and then be in a different position a few hours later. Edna tried, but she could never see it move. A scrub brush looked different degrees of dead from morning to afternoon, or was the color changing with the movement of the sun? An old wildlife guide she found in the garage offered no explanation. Spotting quail or a jackrabbit was entertainment, as Edna looked after the animals and wondered where they lived, what they ate and what in the world they drank. The guide had pictures, a few sentences and practically no information. She wished she knew what had happened to that little bunny she saw when she was lost, but there were some things that were impossible to know, even if your phone had service.
Edna moved a chair next to Grandpa on the porch one afternoon as something new to try. She was a little afraid of him even though he seemed harmless. Grandma had explicitly written don’t bother Grandpa on that list Edna had ripped up. Was sitting next to him bothering him?He didn’t seem to notice her. Grandpa’s eyes were dull. His only movement was the gentle rising and falling of his chest under his flannel shirt. Some gray hairs stuck out of the top of it, where the button was open. It was too hot for flannel, but Grandpa was so still all the time, maybe he didn’t get hot. Or maybe he was boiling but unable to say so. He didn’t seem to be sweating. The breeze lifted little hairs on his arms. His face looked like Edna’s father’s would if a sculptor chiseled deeper definition into it and a painter grayed his hair and roughed his skin. As far as Edna could tell, Grandpa’s head was an empty shell.
She challenged herself to empty her own head, but she sighed and fidgeted. Her thoughts drifted to Johnny and things like the sweat that came through his T-shirt. For some reason his sweat wasn’t gross. She wondered if he ever thought about her. She wondered what he was having for dinner and then what Grandma would make for dinner and if Grandpa ever cared what she made. She didn’t understand how Grandpa was able to do some things, like put food on a fork and put it in his mouth, but not others, like help Grandma do anything, or talk. She didn’t even know if Grandpa saw the expansive landscape in front of them the same way she did.
There was no homework, no French or piano to practice, no gymnastics or yoga or debate team. Why was being good at all these things so important anyway? Edna had no parties to go to and no gifts to buy. She was missing some birthdays. She didn’t have a million texts to return, and she didn’t have to load a bunch of photos and write captions. Or tweet something or retweet something. She had no way to pin. Her Tumblr hadn’t been updated. In the real world, Edna was always doing something or on her way somewhere. Her rhythm of changing activities every hour, every day, was slowly unraveling here in the desert, with no next activity. She painted the porch for four hours one day, which she only estimated because of the cramp in her shoulder and the changed position of the sun.
Because of their rocky start, Edna kept a polite distance from Grandma most of the time. This was easy, as Grandma spent chunks of her days crocheting or absorbed in her complex cactus garden. Once, Edna asked if she could help her in there, but Grandma only shrugged and seemed confused.
“I make it up as I go along.”
Somehow Edna understood that the garden was Grandma’s creative project, and there was not a lot to do out here in the middle of nowhere. Edna started her own projects, like painting the porch and making a stone path from the cabin to the eucalyptus
Edna started to observe things in this place where almost nothing happened, and she attributed her heightened awareness to the media blackout she lived in. Her mind thirsted for new facts. Sometimes a certain cactus would bend over one way and then be in a different position a few hours later. Edna tried, but she could never see it move. A scrub brush looked different degrees of dead from morning to afternoon, or was the color changing with the movement of the sun? An old wildlife guide she found in the garage offered no explanation. Spotting quail or a jackrabbit was entertainment, as Edna looked after the animals and wondered where they lived, what they ate and what in the world they drank. The guide had pictures, a few sentences and practically no information. She wished she knew what had happened to that little bunny she saw when she was lost, but there were some things that were impossible to know, even if your phone had service.
Edna moved a chair next to Grandpa on the porch one afternoon as something new to try. She was a little afraid of him even though he seemed harmless. Grandma had explicitly written don’t bother Grandpa on that list Edna had ripped up. Was sitting next to him bothering him?He didn’t seem to notice her. Grandpa’s eyes were dull. His only movement was the gentle rising and falling of his chest under his flannel shirt. Some gray hairs stuck out of the top of it, where the button was open. It was too hot for flannel, but Grandpa was so still all the time, maybe he didn’t get hot. Or maybe he was boiling but unable to say so. He didn’t seem to be sweating. The breeze lifted little hairs on his arms. His face looked like Edna’s father’s would if a sculptor chiseled deeper definition into it and a painter grayed his hair and roughed his skin. As far as Edna could tell, Grandpa’s head was an empty shell.
She challenged herself to empty her own head, but she sighed and fidgeted. Her thoughts drifted to Johnny and things like the sweat that came through his T-shirt. For some reason his sweat wasn’t gross. She wondered if he ever thought about her. She wondered what he was having for dinner and then what Grandma would make for dinner and if Grandpa ever cared what she made. She didn’t understand how Grandpa was able to do some things, like put food on a fork and put it in his mouth, but not others, like help Grandma do anything, or talk. She didn’t even know if Grandpa saw the expansive landscape in front of them the same way she did.
There was no homework, no French or piano to practice, no gymnastics or yoga or debate team. Why was being good at all these things so important anyway? Edna had no parties to go to and no gifts to buy. She was missing some birthdays. She didn’t have a million texts to return, and she didn’t have to load a bunch of photos and write captions. Or tweet something or retweet something. She had no way to pin. Her Tumblr hadn’t been updated. In the real world, Edna was always doing something or on her way somewhere. Her rhythm of changing activities every hour, every day, was slowly unraveling here in the desert, with no next activity. She painted the porch for four hours one day, which she only estimated because of the cramp in her shoulder and the changed position of the sun.
Because of their rocky start, Edna kept a polite distance from Grandma most of the time. This was easy, as Grandma spent chunks of her days crocheting or absorbed in her complex cactus garden. Once, Edna asked if she could help her in there, but Grandma only shrugged and seemed confused.
“I make it up as I go along.”
Somehow Edna understood that the garden was Grandma’s creative project, and there was not a lot to do out here in the middle of nowhere. Edna started her own projects, like painting the porch and making a stone path from the cabin to the eucalyptus
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