When I wave Katy over, she approaches timidly, but leans in to kiss Gram’s forehead. “Hi, Grammy.”
Seventy-two years and three generations separate these two women, yet a bit of Gram lives on in Katy. You can see it in the shape of their mouths and the slightly snub nose.
“Annie . . .” A look of concern passes over Gram’s face as recognition dawns. “Did something happen to Bobby?”
“No. I bought your house and moved to town. Remember?” I search her eyes for some recognition. “Maybe once the renovations are complete, you can come over for lunch and see all the changes. Would you like that?”
She’s twining her fingers, rolling them over each other. “I don’t know.”
Katy moves to the shelf where Gram has set out two dozen framed photographs: Grandpa and my father, her parents and Lonna, me as a child. Others are landscape or object focused. She’d often had a camera handy, taking snapshots of strange things . . . like “For Rent” and “For Sale” signs, “Grand Opening” banners, new construction, and demolitions. It was almost as if she’d been intent on recording a history of changes in the town, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
When I’d first started drawing, she encouraged me to record the minute details. As I got older, she never much understood my interest in abstract impressionism. I’d tell her to enjoy the emotions at play, but she preferred realism, which is why she favored photography, I suppose.
“I like taking pictures, too,” Katy says, setting a photograph of Grandpa and me back in its spot. She spins around to face Gram. “Let’s take a selfie.”
“A selfie?” Gram shoots me a questioning glance.
Katy sidles beside Gram, sets the camera app to portrait mode, shoots her left arm out and upward—iPhone in hand—and says, “Smile.”
She snaps two quick photos, both of which portray Gram as stoic. Seeing my daughter smiling and making a connection with Gram increases my confidence that coming to Potomac Point will be good for us both. Gram reaches for the phone, shaking her head while turning it over. “That’s sharp . . .”
“I’ll print a copy and bring it next time for your shelf.” Katy shrugs.
Gram’s silver brows gather as she mutters, “You should try good old-fashioned film.”
Katy laughs, then pauses in thought. “Darkrooms look cool in old pictures, with that red light and those tongs. Maybe I’ll have access to one in my photography class.”
“That would be cool,” I say. “I’m sure this school will have some kind of art show to showcase students’ work. You should start thinking up an idea.”
“I actually have an idea of something I’ve been wanting to do anyway,” Katy says.
“What’s that?”
“A family tree collage.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that, like me at that age, she’d turn to artistic expression to work through her emotions. It also shouldn’t surprise me that she’s thinking about family at a time when hers is breaking apart. “How do you mean?”
“I’ll collect new and old photos of Dad, you, myself, Grammy, and other extended family—with your and Dad’s help. Then I’ll tear them into bits and assemble them to look like the bark of a tree trunk and branches. At the ends of each branch will be a whole photograph of each family member.”
“That’s interesting,” I say.
Katy nods. “I guess some of the old photos will be film based, but digital filters are pretty awesome, too, Grammy. Next time I come, I’ll bring my laptop and show you how to edit digital photographs. We could photoshop your face onto Beyoncé’s body if you want.” She laughs.
Gram blinks, bewildered. “I won’t be here.”
My lips part. “Where will you be?”
“New York. And don’t try to stop me this time.” Defiance seeps from her pores. “I have to find Billy’s parents and explain.”
Katy mouths, “Who’s Billy?”
I’m guessing he’s a character from a television drama that she’s confused with reality.
I play along with the hope of calming her, perhaps by transitioning to something mundane. “New York is exciting. Maybe I’ll go with you.”
She narrows her eyes, but I keep talking. “You did a nice job decorating your room, Gram. I always loved this carpet.” I then point at my old painting. “Thanks for bringing that with you, too. I might never have studied art if you hadn’t bought me my first set of paints and canvases.”
She’d done it to give me a quiet outlet for my grief. I quickly realized how art affects us all, much like how music—both in its creation and its effect—stirs something inside. Connects us through familiar emotions. Art is the single most important gift Gram ever gave me.
Yet although proud of my early successes in high school and college, she encouraged me to give it up when Katy showed signs of needing more attention. “Sometimes you have to make sacrifices, Annie. No one gets to have it all. Richard makes a lot of money, so you can afford to stay home and take care of your child.”
She hadn’t been wrong. I wanted to experience playing with Katy at the park and finger-painting together and taking her to soccer practice. My professional career hadn’t taken off like Richard’s had, so I immersed myself in two roles I was certain I could do well. Joke’s on me. Clearly, I failed as a wife. And Katy’s inability to cope with her frustrations suggests I’m failing as her mom, too.
Katy casts a glance at the framed painting. She’s probably judging it and probably deciding she might do it better, or at least differently. Professor Agate would be disappointed in my lack of daring now.
Gram blinks, her gaze darting from it to me. I can’t tell if she recognizes it, but she has not become more talkative in old age. This visit will require a lot of prompts.
Her room is a touch too warm, but I doubt she has any iced tea or soda in that tiny refrigerator. “How’s the food here?”
She clucks and waves her hand dismissively.
“Make me a list and next time I’ll bring some of your favorite things from town. I see you have a microwave, so perhaps you’d like soup.”
“I’m not hungry.” She shrugs.
“You need to eat.” I search my memory for her favorites. “Maybe chocolate pudding will stoke your appetite.”
She loved pudding back in the day, and I’d loved to scrape clumps of thickened leftovers from the edges of the pot and chew them one by one.
No one says much, but at least Gram isn’t as agitated or teary as when we’d arrived. An improvement. During a pause in conversation, I debate whether to bring up the recipe box.
Gram asks Katy, “What are you doing now?”
“Talking to my friends.” Katy flashes her phone screen our way.
“Am I going deaf, too?” Gram gestures toward Katy with two fingers. “You shouldn’t sit with your legs open. It’s unbecoming.”
Aha, Gram! There you are.
She uses the word “should” more than any other person I know. You should behave like a lady and not get so muddy. You shouldn’t question the rules. You shouldn’t slurp your soup. You should listen to your father, and don’t make waves. You should marry Richard now that you’re pregnant.