Page 44 of Life, Love, and Other Messes

When I was small, my grandmother lived on a sprawling property several miles out of civilization in north central Minnesota. My grandfather worked dawn to dusk on the farm and she raised my father and his brother, who had Down syndrome. When Uncle Bill passed away at the age of ten, she took a job as a schoolteacher and taught the classics, the only female teacher in the local high school.

We didn’t visit often since it was a long drive, but three glorious summers, my parents sent us to spend a full month in Minnesota. It was cooler there than southern Illinois, and my grandmother allowed me to use my father’s old bicycle to visit the girls who lived on the farm a mile down the road. When they came to visit me, she would serve us ice cream and let us play in the sprinkler until the lawn was soaked.

Kevin and I were on our best behavior during that wondrous month, full of smiles and yes ma’ams for Grandma. Our favorite thing to do was to wade in the creek behind the house, catching crawfish and putting them in a plastic bucket full of mud and water. Grandma would sit on the bank with an iced tea, laughing while we slithered around. We would search until the bucket was crawling, then she would ask us if we were going to eat them, and if not, to throw them back and she’d make something edible for dinner.

Cancer caught up with her when I was eight, and soon thereafter, she sold the property and came down to an assisted living complex three miles from our home. She wore nice clothes to dinner, where she held her head up high and made friends with everyone, but alone in her apartment, she dressed in muumuus and left her wig on its stand in her bedroom.

For my ninth birthday, she sent Kevin to bike to the teacher store in the next town over for my gift. She could have asked Mom or Dad to get it, but Kevin told me she said she wanted to keep it between her and me. It was the best present I had ever received or have since. It was a huge stack of paper, lined on the bottom half, empty on the top, for writing and illustrating stories. In addition, there was a red and silver fountain pen and six black ink cartridges. I almost cried when I thanked her, and she looked at me very seriously and said, “Now write me a masterpiece.”

I took that to heart. Every day after school, I would hurry through my homework and spend the rest of the evening on her story. My handwriting was normally poor to the point of nearly illegible, but I took my time with my beautiful pen so the ink wouldn’t pool or smudge. I took my time with the illustrations, too, using the set of professional colored pencils she’d given me for Christmas. When I finally finished it, I presented it to her one evening in her apartment while Mom and Dad were grocery shopping for her. Grandma was wearing my favorite muumuu, full of large purple flowers, and her head was proud and bald. She set her reading glasses on her nose, very serious, and began to read.

It was a story about a girl named Sylvie who had feet just like a duck, skinny and webbed and bright orange. She spent all her time hiding them, until her best friend had a pool party. Terrified, she pulled off her socks for the first time in front of the other kids, and everyone laughed until she went to hide them in the pool—where it turned out she could swim better than anyone else. She went on to win an Olympic medal and lived the rest of her life as a famous swimming instructor.

I watched carefully, curled tight into my chair, chewing my cuticles as Grandma read. She did not say anything, but did smile a few times. When she finished, she set it next to her and held her arms out to me so I could settle into her lap. I hadn’t done that since I was very young. “It’s brilliant,” she said. “Just brilliant. Such a sweet story with a powerful message, and lovely illustrations.”

I’d never been prouder. “Thank you,” I whispered, feeling my cheeks flush.

“Sam. You’re absolutely correct. Being different can be scary, but in the end, it makes a person extra special. Never forget that, okay?”

“Okay.” I was clueless as to how what she said would come to perfectly describe my life.

“And never stop writing.”

I got my edits back from Jace on Tuesday while I was waiting for Catherine. I didn’t look carefully, but it seemed that there wasn’t much for me to do on the final swoop. I figured I could dig into it the next day after class, or in the evening if Lisa wanted to come over.

The first twenty minutes of my appointment were textbook. I planted myself in my usual spot and we began with a recap of my weeks. I’d been feeling fine, school was going really well although I had a woman in my Comp One class who exhibited classic signs of being in an abusive relationship. We talked for a while about what I might be able to do about that without overstepping boundaries. Then, I told her that Lisa had come over to celebrate her divorce with me.

“That’s significant.”

“What is? That she’s divorced now?”

Catherine shook her head. “That she came to spend the evening with you. That shows a lot of trust. Even if she was happy, it was a very vulnerable moment.”

“I guess.”

“It sounds like she considers you a very good friend.”

“Yeah. I hope so.”

“How are you going to manage this?”

I sighed. “I don’t want to fuck up this friendship.”

“Do you feel like your attraction to her will do that?”

It had in so many situations before. “I can’t let it. I just have to keep cool and enjoy our time together. I can’t push it.”

“Do you feel like you’re able to do that?”

“Fuck, it’s not like I’m going to jump her.”

Catherine closed her eyes. “I did not say that. Are you able to control your feelings so you don’t think she’s rejecting you if she goes out with other friends? If you ask to go on a walk and she says she just wants to be alone?”

“Yes. I can just tell myself she came over after the divorce. Even if she has other friends, she picked me.”

“Or she at least wants to spend time with you sometimes.”

“I won’t smother her. I promise.”