Page 8 of Anders and the Girl Worth Fighting For
“I would like to go, but if you insist on taking care of it, I guess that would be ok,” I responded with a small smile to appease him. Thankfully, it worked.
“Don’t be long,” he said, just before leaving me alone.
When he was gone, I turned back to face the mirror. I gripped the counter with my shaking hands, needing the stability before I vibrated apart.
An old silver picture frame sat in one corner of the counter catching my eye. It was one that my grandma and I had worked on together, something she had found in her attic collecting dust. Being seven, I loved it but declared that it didn’t have enough colors, and that was how we spent an afternoon gluing colorful glass beads to the edge of what was likely an expensive antique.
Tears blurred my vision again, remembering how she laughed and said I had a good eye. These tears didn’t hurt, though. These uncaged my pain and let it escape, freeing me from its constant presence.
In the frame was a picture of the two of us. Grandma and me. She always insisted on taking pictures of us together whenever I came over. I was gap-toothed and smiling widely. We wore our matching pink aprons. My grandma’s rosy and slightly plump cheeks stretched into a wide smile that reached her glittering eyes.
She looked so beautiful. I never realized how much I looked like her. It was the eyes. They were the same green hue.
I stared at the girl in the photo, wondering how my life got so off track. That little girl loved everything to fiercely. Unicorns, pink, cookies, her grandmother. She had dreams, hopes, freedom. God, I wished I could be her again.
All the little things that buried that little girl crowded in, weighing me down, and reminding me that happy endings don’t exist. Bill’s automatic assumption that I wasn’t strong enough or smart enough to talk to the estate lawyer and executor of my grandma’s will. My mom and Bill’s assumption that I would screw up my clothing for the funeral. Their insistence that I didn’t have enough in me to bake for a competition or plan a church function or do anything useful at all. A thousand stones piled on top of each other. A grave as sure as the one grandma would be in soon. All of it had pressed in on me for so long that the little girl in this picture had been dying, crushed under their expectations, their criticism, their cruelty.
I noticed something else about the picture, though. I got the color perfect. My dress and those aprons were a match. This was the color of grandma. This was the color I was going to wear to honor her.
“That’s my girl,” I could hear her say. Encouraging me.
Yes. I was her girl. I was still that girl in the photo. She was still here. Inside me. Part of me. She wanted me to grieve how I needed to grieve. In this pink dress. With the memory of her. The only woman who ever truly cared for my happiness.
I straightened my shoulders and wiped my tears one last time. I didn’t put the picture back down. It was mine now. I slipped it into my purse as I took a few bracing breaths before opening the door and marching down the stairs, my head held high and a new resolve in my step.
“Grace,” my mother whipped out sharply as I walked into the foyer again. “I thought you were going to change. What happened?” She whispered those words, though the sharpness in her tone rang loud and clear.
“I’m wearing this. It’s what grandma would want,” I said. I hoped my words sounded firm and not desperate.
“How would you know what that woman would want? Youhaven’t even seen her since you were a small girl. She wasn’t the woman you thought she was. She would be so ashamed of who you are now.”
Her words washed over me as I walked outside. She still tried to whisper condemnation in my ear with every step I took, but I kept walking. I didn’t care to listen to what she said. None of it matter now.
I approached the coffin. My flowing pink dress stood out, a stark contrast to the sea of black. It was a closed casket. I didn’t even get to see her now, in death. I placed my hand against the lid of it and thought of all the times I spent with this woman. The one person who loved me unconditionally. Probably the only person who ever will. I bowed my head and let new tears drip onto the casket.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there thinking of her, but when I was done, I gathered myself and turned to march right up the aisle, through the house, and out the front door. I didn’t want to be here with these liars. They didn’t love her like I did, and no amount of mourning with them would ever make this right.
I faintly heard my cousin, Jessica, calling out to me, but I couldn’t stop to talk to her. I had to go. I would never have my grandma back and I couldn’t help but think of all those years wasted with her just on the other side of town.
“Grace! Where are you going?” Bill’s voice carried over the crunching gravel of the front drive.
“Home.” I didn’t stop to look back at him, but he grabbed my arm, gripping it tight, halting my progress, keeping me trapped here when I needed to run.
“How are you getting home? We drove together.” I could hear this sneer in his tone knew as well as I knew my face just how his lips twisted in an ugly sneer when he used it. How many times had I heard that exact tone and seen that exact face?
“Can you find a ride home after the funeral? I’m not feelingwell and just can’t be here anymore.” I turned to him then, not bothering to hide my exhaustion.
“Find a ride? Are you crazy? I can’t be seen getting a ride. No, you are just going to have to stay.” He stepped towards me when he said this and I couldn’t help but flinch. I didn’t know why I was so scared of him.
“No. I’m not staying.” I couldn’t. It was all just too much.
“Well then, you need to find a different way home. Walk or something because I’m not leaving yet, and you can’t take the car.” Bill folded his arms and settled his feet like he was literally digging his heels in. My arm ached where he had gripped it, and I knew a purple bruise would form soon. At least, he gripped me high enough up that I could cover it with sleeves.
I swallowed back more tears. I couldn’t fight him anymore. Not today. I turned and started walking. What was ten miles in heels, anyway?
Chapter Four
2012
