Five years ago on Pearl Harbor day, I woke up cold in a twin bed in my grandmother's house in Shaker Heights.
It was a bitterly wintry first weekend of December in Cleveland. I had packed stockings and skirts, wanting to show off my recent transformation into Boston city chic to Ammah, ever supportive of my classical music pursuits, and I woke up regretting the thin contents of my carry on. I pulled stockings on and put my pajama bottoms back on over them, doubled up on socks, and shrugged a wool scarf I'd found in the closet around my torso. I got back in bed, but it was still too cold. I gave up on the dream of sleeping in on a Saturday, and got out of bed to wander down from the third floor attic room.
Grandma was sitting downstairs, and she greeted me.
"Hello Barbara."
I shrugged it off, reminded her I'm her grand-daughter Lucy, I'm visiting her and mom for the weekend. I got in last night on a slightly delayed flight, and took the rapid from the airport to the neighborhood station. It was late, so she probably didn't hear me come in. I'm sleeping in Aunt Al's room.
"Oh, yes, oh yes. It's so good to see you! How is working at the symphony? Are you liking it?"
I was surprised she remembered about the symphony. It's funny what could stick and what wouldn't from the day to day exchanges. Mom had been telling her about my impending visit for weeks, maybe months, maybe even since the day I bought the ticket in early October. It had been several weeks since I started the new job, and feeling a bit settled and flush with cash after a few solid paychecks, I bought a ticket. Ammah had Alzheimer's, along with a grab bag of other ailments that come along with living past ninety. It had been a tough five years, and a tougher five before.
Mom told me to wait until January to visit, "there's no rush,we'll be here just the same", but I had been amazed by the blank boxes in December under the numbers 6, 7, and 8. It was some kind of sign. I was sitting at my still new desk in October one Tuesday after all of my colleagues had left, killing time before a rehearsal at Old South Church. I could've walked over right away and met everyone for the traditional pre-sing burrito, but something was tugging on the edges of my temples. I hadn't seen mom since May and Ammah since June. The distance had been weighing on me all fall, and was only getting worse. And I didn't know why.
In Ammah's kitchen, I put the kettle on and perused the breakfast options. The big kitchen windows made the room even chiller than upstairs and I shrugged on my wool hat and stood closer to the stovetop. Mom came bustling up from the basement, her arms full of cookbooks, and ordered a veggie egg white omelette if I was gonna hopefully get cooking.
"There's sausages too, sweetie, in the freezer."
It would be a full, quiet morning. While grandma watched a news program and finished her tiny breakfast, I examined every inch of that old house. I had spent very little time in it as a child; we always spent time with Grandma Bryan at the cottage on the lake in Michigan instead of in Ohio. I was fascinated by the artifacts and treasures she had stashed and stored and kept all of these years. The last of her family line, Ammah inherited everything from the dark wooden dining set to pink china to animal figurines. I spent time moving around like the house was a beloved art museum, saying hello to old friends and loving on new ones. Picking up her books and turning them over in my hands, opening the first page to see if her name or my great-grandmother's, the English major, would be inscribed in wiggly blue pen.
Another cup of tea and toast in hand, I made my way back through all of the rooms and to Ammah's side in the living room. Mom had picked out a Christmas tree a day or two before, and set it up for me to decorate. She had pulled out our box of ornaments from our old house in Massachusetts, as well as all of the Christmas ornaments she could find in the basement. Grandma sat and we talked about music and my last visit to Cleveland the year before for Thanksgiving, and the Rachmaninoff piano concerto we had taken her to hear at the CSO. I took a sip of my tea and realized I was on the edge of tears, turned back to the tree and kept hanging ornaments while Ammah hummed to herself, not knowing I could hear. I didn't know where my brain was, and why I was feeling heavy again, even in this moment. I wondered what Ammah was thinking about, too.
Mom appeared in the living room, in between trips carrying laundry upstairs, and asked me to play the piano and sing a hymn or two for Grandma, but I pushed it off. Keyboarding skills at Wellesley had done nothing for me. Plus, the only hymnal on the instrument was the 1982 and all the hymns are the trickiest in that one. I felt guilty for opting not to bring my flute or guitar for the weekend. A real musician would be able to play a Christmas hymn for their grandmother.
I put the last ornament on the tree, and brought each of us a plate of a few chocolates and cookies, and more tea. When every one was settled with sweets in their spots around the tree, I plugged in the lights. Ammah sighed, and smiled. Mom got the glassy faraway look in her eyes, the one she gets whenever she talks about sailing. And horse races. And India. Something snagged in my chest, and I looked away.
We had plans to do a few errands while Ammah napped. Mom had discovered a used book store, a magical place, complete with a large, loving cat, and wanted to show it to me quick before grabbing essentials (wine) at the grocery. We split up; mom to mystery and myself to poetry and rare books. Far too long later, mom found me. She was worried. We made our purchases, and hurried out of the peaceful store. At the supermarket, I could see mom growing more anxious the longer we waited in the check out aisle. She wasn't sure, but she felt we had been gone too long. She'd only meant to be gone an hour, and two had snuck by.
When we got back to the house, Ammah was awake, and she was frightened. She wasn't breathing well, and I left mom to take care of the nurse duties while I unloaded the car and put away the groceries. I could hear labored breathing from the bedroom, and an unfamiliar cough.
I didn't know what it was or what was happening. But I also knew, somehow, exactly what was happening. I had known all day. Maybe even since the night I sat at my cubicle and cried, and thought about Donny and thought about Cleveland, and booked a ticket.
Mom called out asking for a glass of water and warm wet dish cloth, and then she asked me to get dinner prepped while she waited for Ammah's breathing to stabilize. She'd forgotten, we'd already made a meat loaf. All that needed doing was green beans and potatoes, and I could wait a while until dinner time rolled around. It was only 4. I went upstairs to the little twin bed and got back in bed still in my jacket, scarf, hat, and mittens. I put my headphones in. All I could hear was a rattling, unfamiliar cough. I closed my eyes, and focused my brain on just the soft words of "Joy to the World", my favorite version. The one I was listening to walking home to my flat in Vienna after Thanksgiving, when it snowed for the first time in my new city. The one I was listening to in June when I visited Ammah at the cottage with Aunt Alice and decided to bake Christmas cookies and a pie the same morning. Alice's iguana had died the night before, drowned in the bathtub.
The song played twice, then I gave up again. Too damn cold for a nap. I went back to the kitchen. it had become the only slightly warm spot in the whole house.
I put the kettle on, and pulled out the mixing bowls. Flour, baking powder, hazelnuts, salt. Sugar, egg, a splash of milk. The star-shaped cookie cutter mom gave me last Christmas. The raspberry jam was still in the last shopping bag, and the powdered sugar. I pried the tiny recipe card out of the back pocket of my leather purse, and twisted my long hair up, tying it in place with a rubber band from the silverware drawer. Grandma's kitchen apron was only a waist skirt, but it would do. I pulled the strings around my back and then brought them back in front of my waist to tie a crisp bow. Smoothed the soft fabric down with both hands. Took a deep breath.
Mom was with Ammah; everything would be okay. I was with them both, and soon, we would have star-shaped cookies, and falling snow.
--- in memory of my grandmother, Sarah (Sally) Sells Bryan who died in her bed with her beloved animals, one of her two daughters, and one of her two grand-daughters by her side, on December 7, 2013, after a Cavalier's win
