Page 52 of Lovingly Restored

Mummo is perched next to the open window in her bedroom, cheering Ashlyn on. She waves at me, and I raise a hand back.

“What the hell are you using to do said gardening?”

“A rake. I found it in the garage. Mummo said I could use whatever I needed.”

I scratch my head. The vast majority of stuff in that garage is destined for the landfill. “Was that during this century or…”

Bits of red-brown rust flake off onto Ashlyn’s unprotected palms. I can see that the coveralls are also from the garage. I’m sure Mummo used to wear the exact pair for messy jobs around the yard. Even though the threadbare garment hangs off of her and she has a sheen of sweat plastering her baby hairs to her forehead, she’s so pretty. It’s been too many days since I’ve really looked at her. My dick twitches in my Carhartts as memories of last week flicker through my mind.

“Those tools are perfectly good, Isaac!” Mummo hollers from her room.

“She’s gonna get Tetanus!” I yell back.

How the hell did she even hear that?My grandmother looks fully entertained, elbows propped up on her bedroom windowsill. With every pull, the tines of the rake snag in the hardy weeds and make a terrible twang as the metal catches. The pile Ashlyn has managed to remove is pitifully small. I clutch the rake with my right hand, stopping her midway through a pull.

“Stop,” she says, yanking back with surprising force.

The April sun is beautiful and not nearly as hot as it will be later in the season, but Ashlyn’s cheeks are pink with exertion.

I pull back harder. I’m not trying to be an ass. I want her to find a way to work smarter, not harder.

“Isaac,” she sighs, “let it go.”

I get the sense she’s talking about more than the rake. She wiggles the handle around, but my grip is strong. Covering her hand, I gently loosen her fingers off the battered handle. She slackens her grip, and I lower the rake to the ground, feeling like I just disarmed a criminal.

I hold my empty hands out. “Show me.”

“This isn’t necessary, Isaac,” she says, voice cracking.

“It’s necessary to me.”

She nods and places her hands in mine, palm up. Her hands are red and swollen from the friction.

“Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” I keep my voice soft, not wanting to admonish her.

She shakes her head weakly, and I think I hear her sniffle.

“I found some in the garage, but they were way too big. I left mine at my apartment, but they’re more for keeping dirt off your hands.”

I would have gotten her some if she asked. I’m only at the hardware store every other day.

“Do you want help?”

I’m bone tired but the words fly out of my mouth anyway.

“You don’t need to–”

I stop her there. “Iwantto. If you haven’t noticed, I enjoy doing things for you, Ashlyn. And if you don’t like that…well, tough. If it makes you sleep better at night, imagine I’m doing it for Mummo.”

We both glance at my grandmother. She gives us a wave with her fingers.

“I know things didn’t really work out with our, um, plan. Don’t feel like you have to treat me differently because of that.”

I scratch my head, “Wait…just…what?”

If my face doesn’t convey my confusion, my utter lack of English skills might.

I try again. “You think that things didn’t ‘work out’ the other night? Were we in the same room?”

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