back of his shirt, wishing to be invisible. The hall seemed miles long, like a forced march down death row. My vision darkened at the periphery, until I could only identify those objects directly in front of me. A knickknack shelf with pearly blue and white porcelain figures dancing a minuet. A grandfather clock with a swinging pendulum and great, brass-chained weights.
I wanted to ask god to absorb me into the floorboards, to make me disappear, but I owned no god as yet, being too young to merit his attentions. I knew that, if seen, I could only be seen as not fitting here. I was not a child who lived in a house with a grandfather clock. I was a child who had to wash her hands before she could touch one. I was not a child who would be trusted to dust the fine bric-a-brac, but the one who would break something special.
Grandma Sterling sat in a frail wicker chair and Simon and I perched lightly on the edge of a love seat, my hip bumping against his. I thought if I touched as little of the furniture as possible she might admire my futile efforts not to defile her environment.
DeeDee spoke first. She said, oh, man, did I warn you. She laughed at us.
“You look a lot like your mother, Simon.”
Grandma Sterling’s voice echoed down to me, like a voice that breaks through a veil of sleep. My stranger-grandmother was drifting farther away. Or I was.
She asked Simon what brought us, and if we traveled alone, and how we found the trip. She focused only on Simon, her smile store-bought, her voice crisp, a voice reserved for asking questions of strangers when the answers don’t matter. She never looked at me or called me by name. I began to think I might really be invisible, and the more sure I became, the more light flowed into my peripheral vision.
Simon stood and tugged at my sleeve. I didn’t dare ask what I had missed. I followed him bumping-close into the kitchen, a sprawling white room with bay windows and hanging plants, by far the brightest room in the house, yet the light appeared black to me. I can’t explain it any better than that.
Grandma Sterling set three blue willow china bowls on the table in front of Simon, then a quart of handpacked vanilla ice cream and a scoop, and slipped away to boil water for tea.
“Simon, is it dark in here to you?”
Simon gave me a funny look and pressed a hand to my forehead. I told him I felt fine and sat with my chin on the table, watching him scoop ice cream. It was packed hard, and he applied more and more pressure until the scoop slipped and a curl of ice cream skidded loose, flew into the air and landed on Grandma Sterling’s kitchen linoleum.
For the first time in my life, it seemed poor Simon was in over his head. He stared at the blob on the floor, his eyes frozen wide in terror. I looked around to see Grandma Sterling filling a kettle, her back to us, and did the only right, logical thing. I grabbed the scoop out of Simon’s hand and bumped him out of the way.
I wondered if he’d ask me later why I did it. I had plenty of time to wonder. Time slowed to a crawl as Grandma Sterling blew lightly on the burner and adjusted the flame.
I knew that, when she turned around and saw what had happened, she couldn’t possibly think less of me than she already did. But Simon had a chance. I could tell by the way she looked at him—like he was there. Like she had pictured her grandson looking something like him, blond and fair-skinned and handsome. Why ruin Simon’s chance?
When she turned, her face fell. She stood for a moment, hands on hips, as if the whole situation was simply too much for her. Then she moistened a linen towel and wiped up the mess. As she straightened up, a wisp of gray curl fell onto her forehead, and she brushed it back into place, seeming anxious to make everything perfect again.
“I guess we should have left that to your brother Simon.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
We ate our ice cream and drank our tea in the most deafening,
I wanted to ask god to absorb me into the floorboards, to make me disappear, but I owned no god as yet, being too young to merit his attentions. I knew that, if seen, I could only be seen as not fitting here. I was not a child who lived in a house with a grandfather clock. I was a child who had to wash her hands before she could touch one. I was not a child who would be trusted to dust the fine bric-a-brac, but the one who would break something special.
Grandma Sterling sat in a frail wicker chair and Simon and I perched lightly on the edge of a love seat, my hip bumping against his. I thought if I touched as little of the furniture as possible she might admire my futile efforts not to defile her environment.
DeeDee spoke first. She said, oh, man, did I warn you. She laughed at us.
“You look a lot like your mother, Simon.”
Grandma Sterling’s voice echoed down to me, like a voice that breaks through a veil of sleep. My stranger-grandmother was drifting farther away. Or I was.
She asked Simon what brought us, and if we traveled alone, and how we found the trip. She focused only on Simon, her smile store-bought, her voice crisp, a voice reserved for asking questions of strangers when the answers don’t matter. She never looked at me or called me by name. I began to think I might really be invisible, and the more sure I became, the more light flowed into my peripheral vision.
Simon stood and tugged at my sleeve. I didn’t dare ask what I had missed. I followed him bumping-close into the kitchen, a sprawling white room with bay windows and hanging plants, by far the brightest room in the house, yet the light appeared black to me. I can’t explain it any better than that.
Grandma Sterling set three blue willow china bowls on the table in front of Simon, then a quart of handpacked vanilla ice cream and a scoop, and slipped away to boil water for tea.
“Simon, is it dark in here to you?”
Simon gave me a funny look and pressed a hand to my forehead. I told him I felt fine and sat with my chin on the table, watching him scoop ice cream. It was packed hard, and he applied more and more pressure until the scoop slipped and a curl of ice cream skidded loose, flew into the air and landed on Grandma Sterling’s kitchen linoleum.
For the first time in my life, it seemed poor Simon was in over his head. He stared at the blob on the floor, his eyes frozen wide in terror. I looked around to see Grandma Sterling filling a kettle, her back to us, and did the only right, logical thing. I grabbed the scoop out of Simon’s hand and bumped him out of the way.
I wondered if he’d ask me later why I did it. I had plenty of time to wonder. Time slowed to a crawl as Grandma Sterling blew lightly on the burner and adjusted the flame.
I knew that, when she turned around and saw what had happened, she couldn’t possibly think less of me than she already did. But Simon had a chance. I could tell by the way she looked at him—like he was there. Like she had pictured her grandson looking something like him, blond and fair-skinned and handsome. Why ruin Simon’s chance?
When she turned, her face fell. She stood for a moment, hands on hips, as if the whole situation was simply too much for her. Then she moistened a linen towel and wiped up the mess. As she straightened up, a wisp of gray curl fell onto her forehead, and she brushed it back into place, seeming anxious to make everything perfect again.
“I guess we should have left that to your brother Simon.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
We ate our ice cream and drank our tea in the most deafening,
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