The Orb, Monica Gillespie [bookreader TXT] 📗

body as I see him now. Being a father of a young girl, Christian now understands my grandfather’s warning and protective spirit. He admits that if his daughter was found with anyone like he was in those days he wouldn’t be as tolerant as any of my family had been.

Expressing his feelings is still not something that comes easily to Christian. It is through periodic glimpses into his heart, like that of the protection of his daughter, that I find some glimmer of sensitivity that I always sought from him, but never found.

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“Hello,” I stumble to the phone, emerging from the shower. It is 6:30 am and I know calls at that time are never positive.

“Loni, it’s your daddy.” My heart falls to the wet floor. I can almost feel it become one with the water that drips from my body. I don’t know what is wrong, but his voice makes it clear that bad news will follow. Really bad news.

“Your granddaddy passed away, this morning, Loni. Your grandmother went to get him up and he didn’t wake up. He died in his sleep.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour. I love you.” That is the only response I can deliver. I have been lucky and not lived a life void of extreme trauma or death. I don’t know how to feel yet.

I crawl back under the covers and wrap my husband’s sleeping arms around me. “Granddaddy died.” I whisper. He holds me tighter and starts crying with me. Already I am looking to him to be the raft that holds me afloat through the next few days.

When I think of my own death I often think I want my friends to throw an enormous party and talk about our time together. I want people to dance and sing and listen to all of my favorite songs. And other times I think it would be best to be quietly placed in the ground, to live forever in their memories. Granddaddy’s funeral is a little mixture of both, as traditional Southern ones are. They become part family reunion and part opportunity to grieve.

In the receiving line at the funeral home, I am numb to all of the introductions, to people who haven’t seen me since I was “this tall.” I sigh with relief when I am able to find comfort in a familiar face or embrace among the sea of strangers. Dori and Mary have been that and we seldom leave each others sides, reaching out for a hand during a sudden moment of weakness.

So when Christian appears in the doorway, I think we are all grateful for the ease at which we can hold hands and steady ourselves. Christian was part of all of our pasts. For Dori and me he was our first crush and ultimately our first love. One boy who was an earthquake of emotion upon our young hearts and could have easily divided us.

It feels as though the sea parts as he progresses towards us. We all look at each other, no one speaking, and fall into each others arms. After 15 years of living our lives separately, the orb we once knew embraces us. I’m not sure how long we stay in our circular embrace, sharing our tears and warmth. It feels like a long time, maybe it isn’t.

When we pull apart, I glance up to meet the eyes I know are glaring upon me. Joseph, across the room leaning down drawing with our son, looks to me with a mixture of anger and pain. I imagine the anger is that Christian has shown up and the pain is from the visible comfort I find in the group’s united embrace. All a reminder of the world he deliberately extracted me from so many years ago.

Christian chats with Dori and Mary and shares pictures of his wife and daughter. Having been in such close contact with recently, I am content in letting them have their time, to not jeopardize these reuniting moments. I linger in the background and continue greeting visitors coming to mourn the loss of my granddaddy.

The next time I notice Christian’s presence at the funeral is when I see him hugging and consoling my grandmother. I immediately think of Joseph and scan the room to find him and the children sitting in a corner of the flower-filled space. The anxiety that comes next is overwhelming. In the midst of my sadness and emotions, I don’t know if I can navigate Joseph’s reaction to what I cannot control. If we speak nothing of it, the fact that Christian is here will linger between us. If he mentions it I will be resentful that he can focus on something such as that during this time when I am distraught with loss and worry about my grandmother and mother.

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Back at my grandparents house, the weight of granddaddy’s absence is heavy. He isn’t stretched upon the couch sleeping off the fried chicken he ate or cheering for a kiss on the cheek from one of the toddlers that roam about. Dori, Mary, our other cousins and I retreat to activities we would have had as children. We congregate together, away from the crowd, absorbed in our secrets. Had the situation been different, and I not so consumed in doing what I can to ease the pain, I might have been more sensitive to Joseph’s reactions to my behavior. I have left the care of our children completely up to him, and I am not being the wife he thinks I should be in this situation. This much I know. He can’t articulate it, but I am positive he feels we should be leaning solely on each other and our children right now. But I can’t. I long to feel like a child myself, to rekindle the bond we have as siblings and cousins in our tight knit, and sometimes, dysfunctional family.

Somewhere in the midst of our reminiscing and sharing of secrets we all decide it would be fun, healing and comforting to ask grandma if we can all stay there for the night. A sleepover reminiscent of those we had as children. I don’t ponder Joseph’s opinion or acceptance to this arrangement.

“Sweetie, we’re all going to stay here with grandma tonight. She can’t be alone and we think having us all here will help her get some rest.”

After a pause and then a deep breath, undoubtedly trying to stay calm and focused, he retreats with “Okay, if that’s what you want to do. I’ll call mama and have her keep the kids.”

There is no way for me to explain that he isn’t invited, that it will just be the grandchildren. He won’t understand, will take it as personal abandonment.

“No, I think it would be better if you stayed with the kids. They are going to be pretty upset about me not coming home. Staying with your mom will only lead to greater confusion for them.” I try.

“But I don’t want you to be alone, I want to be here for you.”

Closing the space between us, I rest my head on his chest and lean upon my wall of support. “You are always here for me, sweetie. But grandma needs me tonight. And my cousins.”

He kisses the top of my head and I pray that he will find the ability to understand.

As the house clears, we create the surroundings for a night of memories. We setup the TV and VCR in grandma’s bedroom and move two recliners on either side of her bed. Dori has gone to the store and bought popcorn, brownies, beer, wine, and macaroni and cheese (the ultimate comfort food). There are five of us staying and we have gathered all the videos and pictures we can find. The stories are in our hearts and will flow without prompting.

If love could be something tangible it would be a blanket thrown upon us in that room. Words cannot describe the joy, solace and love that is present in that room as we remember not only our grandfather, but also the ties that bind us together.

When we pop in the last video, I take an extra breath as it begins to play. It is of the lake, the summer before graduation. The camera circles the faces of the crowd, of the adjacent two campers and the lot between them. My best friend, Anna Lisa, is braiding my hair. Dori is napping, stretched out on the bare wood of the deck, sun in her face, reflecting off her blond curls. Mary and our other cousin James are playing cards… with Christian. There he is. The memories that had been only committed to words over the last few months are before me in their animated glory. The night that video was taken I remember he and I sneaking off to the paddle boats as the band was playing under the picnic shelter. My memory is interrupted when Dori suddenly has a story of her own to relive.

“Grandma, remember that night in the camper when we asked you if you and granddaddy still had sex?”

Grandma’s face turns the same color of crimson as it had that night.

“Yeessss, I remember. Granddaddy laughed about that for weeks. What did we say, I don’t remember?”

“You said yes, just not with each other!,” I remind her. And we all start laughing. Granddaddy was always such a joker. But even then we knew the lack of denial from either of them meant they still very enjoyed each others bodies.

“Did ya’ll ever stop having sex?, “ Dori presses on.

“I’m not going to tell you that!”

“Come on, Granddaddy would tell us!”

“Yeah, Grandma, we’re adults and we look up to the lasting relationship you and Granddaddy had. It would be encouraging for us to know that the intimacy survived so many years,” I encourage. And I mean what I say. We all know that Grandma and Granddaddy had their trials, pregnant affairs and drunken battles. But we also know they survived. They had survived together. All that happened in between the beginning and today was part of the story, not the end. The story of their love was one I had reflected on frequently in the past few years as I worked to define and strengthen my own marriage.

“Okay, yes… we did as much as we could until Granddaddy didn’t have the strength, which was only a few months ago,” Grandma says softly.

I contemplate what the last days of their making love must have been like. Did they know they were coming to an end? Was it romantic? I can’t prod for answers, those are Grandma’s special memories and I don’t want to intrude on what they shared.

James’ phone buzzes in his pocket as we are picking up the debris of our floor and bed picnics and tucking grandma in for the night. He goes outside to take the call, smoke a cigarette and finish off his beer.

I fix Gran a final cup of coffee with a splash of Bailey’s Irish Crème and pull the covers up below her chin. I prop the biggest picture of Granddaddy I can find in the vacant side of the bed.

“Gran, I just want you to know that if you want to come and stay with Joseph and me for