Fifteenth Summer

t w o

Before Granly died, my hair had felt simply like an inconvenience, like being short or needing glasses. (No offense to anyone) But now it seemed like this precious legacy, one I wasn't worthy of.

Thinking about this in the backseat of the car made me feel short of breath—not from carsickness but from panic.

To put it as bluntly as my dad had in January, Granly's death had freaked me out.  I knew that she was gone. I knew that she would never call me again just to tell me some random three minute story.  I knew that we'd never pick her and her bright green suitcase up at the airport.

I knew this, but I couldn't quite bring myself to believe it. It just didn't feel possible that someone could exist and then—poof—not.

That was why I hadn't wanted to look at Granly in her casket before her graveside funeral service.

And it was why I really didn't want to spend this summer in Bluepointe.

We'd never stayed at Granly's cottage without her. The cottage was Granly.

When I was little, Granly had also had an apartment in Chicago. That's where my mother grew up, spending weekends and summers at the cottage.

Granly's apartment had been filled with masculine mementos of my grandfather, who'd died before I was born. There'd been a big leather desk chair and serious Persian rugs and a half-empty armoire that had smelled like wood and citrus, like men's aftershave.

But Granly had decorated the cottage all for herself, and eventually she'd decided to live there full-time. The walls were butter yellow and pale blue, and the floorboards were bleached and pickled, as if they'd been made of driftwood. Every wall was a gallery of picture frames. She'd hung the same family portraits that we had in our house in LA, plus oil paintings, nudes drawn with breathy wisps of red Conté crayon, arty black-and-whitephotos, and, in the breakfast room, paint-blobbed kindergarten artwork by Ruby, Regina and me. She'd picked the fanciest frames of all for our "masterpieces." It was a gesture that had seemed kind of goofy when Granly was alive. Now that she wasn't, I cried every time I thought about her framing those sloppy paintings.

But apparently I was the only one who felt that way. My parents spent most of the drive through Nebraska debating whether to keep or sell the cottage, as if the decision should be made purely on the basis of property taxes and the cost of a new roof.

And when we were deep in Iowa, Regina gazed out at the wall of cornstalks that edged the highway, and laughed suddenly.

"Remember Granly's garden?" she said.

"You mean the petting zoo?" Ruby replied with a laugh of her own. "Oh my God, it was like Granly sent engraved invitations to every deer and rabbit within a five-mile radius. 'Come eat my heirloom radishes!' They loved it."

"Well, it was her own fault," my dad said from the front seat. "She refused to build a fence or use any of those deer deterrents."

"Coyote pee!" Ruby  snorted. "I mean, can you imagine Granly out there in her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, spraying the stepping stones with coyote pee?"

"She wouldn't admit it, but you know she loved watching those deer walk by her window every morning. They were so pretty," Regina  said. "She didn't even like radishes. She just liked the idea of pulling them up and putting them in a pretty basket."

My mom shook her head and laughed a little. "That was so Granly."

"Wait a minute," I said quietly. "I didn't know Granly hated radishes. How did I not know that?"

Gina shrugged lightly, then closed her eyes and flopped her head back. Clearly the subject of Granly's radishes didn't make her the slightest bit sad.

Meanwhile I was biting my lip to keep myself from bursting into tears.

I knew this was what we were supposed to do. We were supposed to talk about Granly and "keep her memory alive." Mrs. Berke had said that to me after Granly's funeral, before giving me an uncomfortable, hairspray-scented hug.

I didn't want to forget Granly, but I didn't really want to think about her either. Every time I did, I felt claustrophobic, the same way I feel every time I get on an elevator.

It's a well-known fact in my family that I'm a mess on an elevator. My ears fill with static. I clench my fists, take shallow breaths, and stare intently at the doors until they open. When they do, I'm always the first one off. Then I have to inhale deeply for a few seconds before resuming normal human functioning.

I wondered if this whole summer in Bluepointe would feel like that. Without Granly there, would I ever be able to take that deep breath and move on?