Page 13 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
“You always have everything under control, Rich. My Rich who makes me the richest girl in the world.” She playfully pinched his bottom.
“Not in front of Nell,” Grandpa pretended to scold.
They’d always been so affectionate. A long time ago, I’d been the grossed-out kid telling them they’d get cooties. A long time ago, I’d been the teenager who avoided their affection like the plague. Now, I thought it was the most wonderful thing in the world.
A right turn, a few more feet, and then we were at Grandmother’s room.
"Home sweet home," Grandpa announced, guiding Grandmother through the doorway with gentle hands at her elbow.
“This isn’t home,” she shook her head. “We didn’t even get in the car, Richard. Where is my table in the hallway? I had my father’s brass baby shoes on it.”
“Oh, darling. Don’t worry. As soon as the painters are done, we’ll move right back home.”
“They’ve been painting forever.” She frowned.
“I know. They’ll finish soon though,” he soothed.
I love our house,” she sighed.
“Me too, Annie. It’s heaven.” No one else would hear the broken notes in Grandpa’s voice but I did.
God, if only I could reverse time.
I’d go back to when there wasn’t so much worry.
Back to happy family dinners.
Back to joyous Sunday car rides.
Back to ice cream cones in the park.
Back to little hurts easily fixed by a few kisses and a pink Band-Aid.
Grandpa helped Grandmother get comfortable in her rocking chair. He folded one of her quilts across her knees, and then he set about making her a cup of mint tea.
He knew everything about his wife. Her likes. Her dislikes. Her fears. Her hopes.
Did Grandpa and I feel the same way these days?
I’d lost my dream.
And I felt like I was losing them.
He was losing her. Losing his marriage. Losing his health.
We were both losing our most important things in the world. Slowly, surely, they were moving beyond our reach.
3
NELLY
Eleven months ago. Tacoma, Washington...
The private suite was clearly not home. It wasn’t even similar enough to pretend. But grandfather had done his best to make this a haven for her. Photos covered every surface—their wedding day, vacations, our annual photo around the Christmas tree, and countless pictures of me growing up. I tried not to look at the framed picture atop her bedside table, the one taken after my first Imperial solo. Grandmother had insisted on framing it in sterling silver. Looking at it now made me feel like an imposter.
"Sit, sit," Grandmother patted the empty chair beside her. "Tell us about your dancing, Nelly. When's your next performance? Seems only yesterday that you left San Francisco."
Was she ‘with us’ enough to know that San Francisco was years ago? Was she existing in the now, or months ago, or last year?
