monday
i ran up the steps i remembered as a child. for a moment, i was 7 again. i was sitting on the steps, crying because i had a splinter in my palm. my grandmother was using a needle to poke it out. she missed several times and my palm was spotted with small drops of blood. i rang the doorbell, and knew exactly what she’d look like. a fat, wrinkled woman, eyes suspicious and wary, one hand on the door, ready to slam it shut. her hair would be messy because she never fixed it up unless she knew company was coming. she’d be wearing old clothes; why dress up for no one? the door opened a crack. i couldn’t see her. inside was dark and she was hidden in the shadows, but only for a moment. the door opened wide and she stepped out, squinting in the sun, her flabby arms grasping for me.
“indie, i’m so glad you came. it’s been so long since i’ve had company. won’t you come inside for some tea?”
i knew my grandmother would welcome me. she always sided with me, even though she never knew the other side of the story. in her opinion, her granddaughter was better than anyone else in the world. i held her hope, that one day i would become someone important and then she could tell her friends who i was. the house smelled musty. she hadn’t aired out the house in a while, but the house was otherwise spotless. she asked how my parents were and i lied. she knew i was lying and i knew that she knew, but everything had to be kept imaginary. i never told her i had left home and she pretended that she didn’t know. everything was a façade, hiding all ugliness except for a few slivers that peeked out from under the pink candy-coated wallpaper. the kettle whistled loudly and insistently, soon subsiding to a low hum. the smell of strawberry tea. she only drank strawberry - the smell was sweet and thick. she looked at me as she handed me my cup.
“yes, indie, you can stay here for as long as you like.”
i think she should start her own business as a psychic.
