Stages of Grace (8 page)

Our morning routine ends up being similar to what it was in the past. Instead of walking over to kiss him in the morning to let him know the shower is free, I just shout it. Jon breaks out the coffee machine for a couple of cups in the morning. Somehow I can't really drink it anymore, I can't go back to how we were and don’t know if I want to start it again. Since it’s still very cold in the morning, I drive Jon to the bus stop near our building. As he’s getting out of my car one morning, Jon pauses as if he is going to tell me something but then just shakes his head and closes the door. I wonder what he was about to say.

The heavy lifting and little time for rest at Jon's new job make him a walking zombie for the first couple of months that he works there. He walks home from the bus stop and showers before crashing, too tired for dinner most nights. One night, Jon is so exhausted that he falls asleep on the bus and has to take another bus back to our house. I enjoy the feeling of coming home to an empty house, and Jon is so tired when he is home he sleeps most of the time he’s there. With the exception of some money for the bus and lunches, Jon gives his entire first paycheck to me. With the next he pays to have a friend fix the dent on my car.

I watch as his attitude and body change with his new job. He smiles more, loses weight, and builds muscle. Seeing him look as he had in the past is harder for me than I expect it to be. It hurts to see him that way and know I don’t love him anymore. I’m not sure how Jon feels and wonder if he will leave now that he has a job and a means to support himself. I almost expect it and then don’t understand why he hasn’t. During the year of his unemployment, Jon seemed to outright dislike me. Now he just seems pensive, never making a move to talk to me or is so neutral when he does that it is impossible for me to gauge what he might be thinking.

This new routine goes on for months. Jon becomes accustomed to the demands of his new job and is able to remain conscious past dinner time. He does not make as much as I do, but he is able to pay half of our rent which makes me feel like I can save again. We never had joint accounts. That’s one thing my mother had been adamant about when we moved in together. She thought that was something we should wait to do until after we were married. While Jon was unemployed, it had not mattered much to me, but now that I am saving, I’m happy that Jon is not privy to the amount I’m able to put away.

We share cooking duties, flipping every other night and whoever doesn’t cook, cleans. I may use more pans than I need from time to time. I’m still angry. Even after all of this time and even though things are so much better, Jon has never really apologized to me. I hold on to the pain and the shame he made me feel almost as a method of protecting myself from caring for him again. I don’t think I will ever be able to put into words exactly how permanently he has hurt me. When he speaks to me, if he speaks to me, all I can hear is the roar of him not saying he is sorry.

To me, it’s a sign of weakness that he cannot admit what he did was wrong. As though not drawing any attention to it will make it like it had never happened. That he thinks I will somehow forget. That’s where he is wrong. I will never forget.

~*~

I am in the kitchen making dinner when Jon walks in one day from work. Jon checks our mail on the way home each day since he passes the bank of mailboxes on the other side of our building on his way back from the bus stop. I tense as he approaches me but then realize he is just handing me an envelope. Taking it from him, I see it is from the funeral home I had used for my parents. I am accustomed to receiving something from them, maybe quarterly, normally advertising specials on burial plots. Never too early to plan for the inevitable
, I suppose. This envelope is different from all of the others, though. It is shaped liked a Hallmark card instead of the longer, thinner envelopes I received in the past.

A
bsentmindedly, I open the envelope and see that inside is another envelope addressed to me on behalf of the funeral home from a Kate Smith in Tampa, Florida. Smith was my mother's maiden name, but it is also such a common name it could be nothing. Curious, I turn the flame of the stovetop to simmer and sit at our small table before opening the card. Jon watches me, his brows furrowed. I shrug as I open the card, gasping as I read its contents. Jon sits next to me as I pause to look up at him with wide eyes before continuing to read.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Wait, let me finish."

I finish reading the card and immediately read it again. I drum my fingers across my lower lip as my eyes skim the page. Finally, I delicately set the card down next to me, looking up at Jon as I still drum my fingers across my lower lip. Incapable of speech, I push the card in his direction. I watch Jon's reaction to the card, seeing him look up to meet my eyes at the same
place I had done the same.

"Are you going to call her?"

"I guess. I'm still just trying to wrap my brain around it."

"I'll finish dinner. Just take your time."

"You don’t have to." I move to stand but Jon shakes his head and goes to the kitchen.

I toy with the corner of the card, worrying it until the different layers of paper are exposed. The card is from my grandmother, my mother's mother. The grandmother I have spent my entire life thinking is dead.
Her letter. Kate Smith. I practice saying that name in my mind. The letter from Kate Smith says that she had only learned of my parents’ deaths last year. She had attempted to locate me afterward without success when she had found their obituaries and from that was able to find the address of the funeral home. She sent the card with the hope that the funeral home would still have my contact information and would forward the card to me.

A grandmother.
All this time I thought I was alone in the world. Why would my mom keep this from me? The letter includes Kate Smith's telephone number. I cannot imagine calling her. What would I say? It's all too much to process. Thinking of it just makes me think of my mother and how desperately I wish she was still here. My mind is a jumble of conflicting emotions and questions all coming back to: why hadn’t my mother ever told me that my grandmother was still alive? Were there other secrets she had kept from me?

Growing up, I always envied my classmates with grandparents. My dad's parents had died before I was born, and from what my mother told me, I was a toddler when her parents had passed away. I never questioned it. Why should I? It is so surreal to be accepting the fact that all that time it had been a lie. I could have had a relationship with my grandmother. Why had my mother kept that from me? What had happened to make her lie to me?

Jon brings a plate of food over to me. I look up surprised, blushing when I admit I'm not hungry anymore. Jon doesn’t seem upset. He just puts it in the microwave for me in case I change my mind later on. I just cannot decide what to do. Call my grandmother or… I can’t imagine not calling her. I just don't know if I can handle calling her today. This is just all so sudden. I rise quickly, thinking of something. Rushing past where Jon sits eating his dinner, I crouch down to look at the bottom shelf of our bookcase where we had stored my parents’ old photo albums. Not sure which one I am thinking of, I pull three out and bring them back over to the table.

Combing through them, I find what I’m looking for: a faded Polaroid of my mother standing stiffly next my grandmother
, on the front porch of a house I don’t recognize. It’s the only picture of Kate Smith I’ve ever seen. My mother looks to be about fifteen years old. I try to remember where my mother had grown up, somewhere on the East coast, maybe Pennsylvania. I look closely at the woman who is my grandmother. In the picture, she has Mary Tyler Moore hair and is wearing a simple dress with a large floral pattern on it. Her arms rest on the shoulders of my mother, and they both seem uncomfortable, my mother wearing her fake smile.

Jon walks over to look at the picture. "Are you going to call her?"

"I guess. I just don’t know what to say. Do I tell her I thought she was dead?"

"She might already assume that. It’s not like you tried to find her for the funeral."

Jon makes a good point. For the first time since my mother's death, I feel almost angry at her. I always thought we were so close. Why had she kept this from me?

"I'm calling her." I get up to get my phone out of my purse.

"Do you want me to stay in here?"

"Sure," I reply as I type the number into my phone and hit the call button.

I chew on the edge of my left index finger. There is a small tear in my nail that I meant to file down. My heart pounds with the first two rings. By the third ring, when there is still no answer, I calm down. Then someone answers.

"Hello?"

I take a deep breath "Hello. Is Kate Smith there?"

"Speaking.
Who is this?"

"Grace Abbott."

"Who?"

"Um, Grace Abbott," I say louder and grimace at Jon.

"Grace?"

"Yes, I am Grace
." I say.

"I want you to come to Florida."

"Excuse me?" I look up at Jon, shocked.

"I'm an old lady, and I want to meet you. I'll pay for the ticket."

"I have a job," I argue.

"Do they give vacations?" she questions.

"Yes, of course." I sink into my chair.

"It's settled then. When can you come?"

This is probably the oddest conversation I have ever had. Did she just say it was settled? Of course I want to meet her. I do. I just don’t know if now is the right time, but she says she is old. Could this be my only opportunity?

"I don’t know. I'd have to talk to my boss."

"Let me know when you do."

"Okay."

"Okay. Bye now."

"Um, bye?"
I look down at my phone to see my grandmother has hung up.

I look over at Jon. "I just talked to my grandmother."

"And?"

"She wants to fly me to Florida to meet her."

His eyes widen. "Really? Are you going to go?"

I shrug
. "I guess so. Maybe I should research her first to make sure she isn’t a psychopath."

"How long would you go for?"

"I have to talk to my office manager. I'm not even sure how much free time I have available."

~*~

A week later, I'm on a plane to Tampa, Florida. I managed to get a week off and am more nervous than I have ever been about anything my whole life. I am not much of a traveler. From dealing with security to my cramped flight and then a layover in Atlanta, I am exhausted by the time I land in Tampa. My grandmother is sending a friend to pick me up as she no longer drives. I make my way to baggage claim and feel a bit odd introducing myself to the guy holding a sign with my name on it. He’s cute, unnervingly cute. He can’t be much older than me. This is my grandmother's friend?

"Ah, hi," I say giving him a little wave. "I'm Grace."

"Hi" he reaches out his hand. "I'm Ryan."

Holy crap! Is that an accent?

"Err, welcome to Tampa."

"Thanks
" I blush, trying to place his accent.

"Alright.
Let’s see if we can locate your luggage," he says, directing me to the carousel for my flight.

Once I point out my bag, Ryan quickly retrieves it and pulls it for me, leading me out towards the parking lot. Stepping outside of the sliding doors, I have to pause for a moment to take in the temperature change. It had been sleeting when I left Cleveland. Here it was gorgeous and sunny. Ryan is a couple steps ahead of me, and seeing I am not behind him, turns to look back at me.

His face mirrors my wide grin."Beautiful, isn’t it?"

"It is." I agree.

"God awful humid in the summer. You’ve come for a stay at just the right time."

I nod excitedly and follow him, mentally trying to remember if I packed enough shorts. Ryan has a longer stride than I do, so I have to hurry to keep up with him as he weaves his way through the parking deck. I wonder how he knows my grandmother.
He kind of looks like a surfer. Do they surf in Florida? I'm trying to figure out in my head if there are even waves on this side of the panhandle. Is there a difference since it is the Gulf of Mexico and not the Atlantic? I am so distracted that I come very close to walking right into Ryan, not noticing he has stopped. Ryan is opening the back of his Wrangler. He looks back at me, his brown hair falling into his green eyes, to reach for my carryon bag.

"Well, hullo there," Ryan grins. He clearly hadn't expected me to be as close as I am.

I flush, quickly handing him my bag before going up front and getting in.

"And we're off
" Ryan jokes, starting the car.

The windows are down so I pull a clip from my purse to keep my hair out of my face. This is my first time in Florida. I spend most of our drive looking out the window. The only place I have ever seen a palm tree before this was on TV or in a book. It feels tropical. I am used to congestion, but the traffic here seems so different from back home. Every other car is a Cadillac or a Lincoln, some driven by little old ladies who can barely see over the steering wheel. As we drive, Ryan tells me how he knows my grandmother. He is her next door neighbor.