Rule 1
Sometimes life gets a little dirty.
[Emily]
I hate weeds.
I mean, really what is their purpose, and why have they invaded my grandmother’s garden like an apocalypse?
When I arrived yesterday, finding my nana very confused and slightly disheveled on her front porch, guilt consumed me like these pesky plants taking over Nana’s flower bed.
Has it really been five years since I’ve paid this woman a visit?
As I flip the calendar in my head backward, I find that it has been that long. In my pursuit for career above all else, I’d been lacking in diligence toward the person most important to me—Nana. Next to my older sister, Grace, of course.
However, I haven’t yet become who I wanted to be in my thirty-four years. I haven’t reached that pinnacle point in my career. I also haven’t found love.
I’m just not marriage material, as a boyfriend of only three months once told me.
He married the next girl he dated.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
As I yank yet another questionable plant with variegated leaves and a prickly stem, I catch a glimpse of Nana out of the corner of my eye. She loves this town, a sleepy tourist place on Lake Michigan. I didn’t grow up here, and for a few years, Nana lived with Grace and me after our mother died. Nana and Grandpa decided to move downstate so as not to uproot us, but the second I graduated from high school, they’d sold our home. Once I left the state of Michigan for college, my eyes never once looked in the rearview mirror. I only faced forward for a career in writing. Journalism, to be specific. I would be the next great columnist, similar to but not quite the same as Nana.
She’d been an award-winning writer on advice, specifically on matters of manners and behaviors in etiquette.
When I’d arrived yesterday, her appearance had been anything but presentable as she stood on her front porch in a housecoat and curlers. She would never still be dressed in her robe and nightgown so late in the day, nor be standing on the front porch of all places in said clothing—heavens no.
Then there was the way she stared at me, or rather through me, like she didn’t know who I was, and for a moment, she didn’t. It was evident my nana did not recall who I was until I introduced myself.
Nana, it’s me. Emily.
How could she not recognize me? I realize it has been a few years since I visited, but we spoke often on the phone. I hadn’t detected a hint to her . . . confusion. My grandmother was practically a second mother, replacing my own who had died when I was only twelve. How could Nana have forgotten me? And furthermore, why had I neglected her? I should have been here sooner.
Fortunately, Nana snapped out of her confusion over who I was rather quickly, but then she started mentioning my grandfather, John.
“John forgot to put out the porch furniture.”
“John hadn’t cut the grass or tended the garden.”
“John wanted his circa-1920s radio fixed.”
The only problem with this list was my grandfather was dead. He died a decade or so ago, and Nana seemed to have forgotten this fact.
How could she forget the love of her life was no longer alive?
She’d locked herself out of the house but told the neighbor John did it.
Oh my.
That action prompted this visit.
Again, I gaze at my grandmother sitting in her backyard, her eyelids drooping in the heat of the day. July is one of the better months to visit here. Tourism is vital for this town’s economy. I was hoping for time at the beach myself, but I can see I have my work cut out for me. Being here entails more than a weekend visit. The unkept yard. The slanted garage. The untidiness of the house. My grandmother has never lacked in her ability to clean, organize, and maintain. She’s always been a pillar of efficiency, only what I’ve found upon this visit proves her skills have been declining. How long has she been like this? And why hadn’t I come sooner?
I tug at another plant.
“That’s a daisy, honey. It stays.” Nana’s scratchy voice startles me. I thought she’d dozed off for a nap.
“Nana, I think you need a break. How about some lemonade?” I’m sweating worse than Millennium Park’s fountain as I stand from my spot in the grass. The flower bed runs the length of the garage, curls around the property’s back edge that runs the expanse of the lot to the opposite corner and ends behind an old playhouse. My knees have grass stains. My nails are broken. As yard work was not on the itinerary when I packed, I’ve cut off an old pair of my grandfather’s pants and topped it with a former T-shirt of his—a white undershirt now colloquially referred to as a wife beater. What a horrible name for a piece of clothing. The pants are bunched awkwardly around my waist by a too-long belt and the tank is too loose. It’s not an attractive outfit. Dirt covers me everywhere.
I swipe at my front, only smearing more dirt across my chest. For some reason, my eyes drift to the house behind Nana’s. They are having their roof repaired, and one man on the shingles attracts my attention.
Jess Carter.
I’d met him yesterday when Nana put up a fuss about my grandfather’s radio. Surprisingly, this small town has a radio repair shop called Sound Advice. Cute name. I was able to find the location easily enough, and I dropped off the ancient electronic device. The entire process was nothing of significance, except for the way I was treated by the owner of the shop.
Cold. Distant. Rude.
And now he’s on the roof behind Nana’s house.
All I did was wave at his daughter, or the little girl I assume is his. A cute little blonde with waves of sun-bleached hair wearing a sweet floral dress. She was playing with a toy tea set at a miniature plastic kitchen in the corner of the entrance area. When I said I was from Chicago, the aura in the shop shifted. He scooped up his child and tucked her into his office as if I was some potential criminal or kidnapper.
Whatever.
I told myself I wouldn’t look up at that roof again once I noticed him earlier, but I can’t seem to fight the pull.
His sweaty back, glistening in the heat of the sun. Muscles etched and tense, the strength evident. His arms display just as much power as he hammers at the replacement shingles. And then there’s what appears to be a signature look for him—a short, straw-blond ponytail and bandana on his forehead. He’s a cross between who Brett Michaels used to be and who Chris Hemsworth still is. Both as hot as this day.
His sharp, denim blue eyes cut me with a glance yesterday, and I don’t need to see them today to recall he doesn’t like something about me. I don’t know why I’m even looking at him, as I prefer businessmen to tradesmen. A crisp suit and a smart tie are my thing. Not low-slung jeans, missing shirts, and that damn bandana.
No matter. I don’t have time for men or commitment.
“But aren’t you lonely for the real thing?” My sister sometimes asks me this after I tell her about another one-night stand or short-term relationship. She knows I am, but my career comes first. It’s my lover, my passion, and my soul mate.
With that thought, I remember my purpose. I need to set things back in order here and then get home. My home. Bright lights, big city. Chicago.
“Nana, let’s go inside for that lemonade and get you out of the sun.”