She’d Say

Tiffany Lindfield

“Buttercup, get up now, Grandma done cooked us a big breakfast,” she’d say. I would wiggle, pretending to wake up, rubbing my eyes, and sitting up to see her warm face beaming. A face I loved beyond the moon. In truth, the patter of her old feet had already woken me, but I would lay in bed, lingering, listening to all the sounds of breakfast cooking. Eggs being cracked against the steel of a gas stove, bacon sizzling and popping in a hot pan, the rolling of dough for biscuits. Grandma made real biscuits, not the kind from cans. With my face flat on one of her worn pillows, I’d envision her with a cigarette in mouth, rolling the wet dough with her hands, and then taking a cup and using the open end of it to cut small circles for biscuits. She would pick the circles out, sitting them on a pan buttered and ready, then roll the excess dough flat again, starting over. Sort-a like life, starting over, and over again.

After breakfast we’d take to the front porch and sit. Being that her red house sat on acres of land, wildlife was abundant. We’d sit side by side on rocking chairs sipping iced tea from thick rimmed glasses with the faces of sunflowers on them, watching the birds, squirrels, rabbits, and deer romp around the yard. I was eager in my chair, being only a child, maybe eight or so, while Grandmother rocked more slowly, dragging the life of cigarettes, talking about her own life, of living with mental illness.

She talked a lot about being a young girl. She would point at an old picture of herself, saying, “I was a beautiful girl, before I had a litter of kids.” I would stare at the photo. Staring back at me was a young woman I didn’t recognize as my grandmother. She wore a cotton white shirt, and shorts, her eyes squinting in the sunlight. “I had a perfect hourglass shape,” she’d say as I wondered what she meant. I thought about the hourglass timer she had sitting on the stove. I would watch the sand fall through.

One day, I found a small baby bird. Grandma said, “Leave it outside. It will die

if you go messin’ wit’ it.” I protested, thinking that the bird would die without me, already believing in the myth of human ability; too young to understand the fragility of all life, even my own. Days followed as I took to carrying the bird around, squashing worms between fingers and stuffing them inside a mouth wide open. Mites crawled from the bird and over me, up from my hands, and along my arms, but I rubbed them off. They itched like hell, but I meandered on my righteous mission, determined to save the tiny being bellowing before me with closed eyes. At night I held the baby to my chest to keep her warm. One morning I awoke with the tiny creature dead in the bend of my bony arm like paper crinkled. I cried for her, and for myself. My grandmother consoled me, never saying, “I told you so,” but we both knew.

At bath time, I pretended to be Grandma, soaking in all her fancy bubbles and oils. She had a large glass jar stuffed with small balls that had an outer rubbery membrane, a shell that would melt in hot water letting oil escape to float on the top of the bathwater. Sometimes I would squeeze the balls in my fingers, watching the oil burst out. Getting out of the tub with dimpled skin, I would cover myself in the white powder she kept behind her toilet in a pink bowl with a swan on top. And then, of course, I would douse myself in her cheap perfumes. There were so many bottles to choose from, each a scent to be unlocked and embraced. Seeing me she would say, “you smell like a little doll.” And I felt like her princess, from the storybooks we read together.

After the baby bird, came a rabbit. He wasn’t caught wild like the bird, but store bought. My grandma’s sister had bought him for me as an Easter present. She came to the house with the bunny, its cage, and a bag of bunny food. She was slim, driving a new BMW. My grandmother saying, “she married well. Just like the rich, they think everythin’ supposed to be contained and prim.” She called the cage cruel and made me a long leash for the rabbit. We watched as he bounced in sweet smelling clover, ripping and chewing the blooms in his mouth. His eyes told me he was wild, and he bit me several times. One day, I woke up to find that he had chewed through the leash, and his way to real freedom. Grandmother said, “he’s out doin’ what rabbits do.” I pictured him chewing clover in other yards.

At night, we would crawl into her big bed. I would fall asleep cozy, feeling the comfort of her body against mine. Oftentimes, I would toss awake though to

find her gone, a small light on in the living room, and her sitting in the big blue chair. “I can’t sleep honey,” she’d say, as I’d crawl under her feet, cold with a moan. Chain-smoking with the bible opened in her hands, she would say, “go on and go back to sleep,” but I wouldn’t unless she came too. She would talk about the hurts in her life. She’d say she too had many troubles to count, and that God kept her going. I would sit with her, pray with her, and imagine God was holding us both in large, loving hands.

One day my cousin Chris came on the bus to spend the rest of the summer with us. He was sneaky, but adults never knew it. He would twist the fat on my leg one minute and then turn around to smile the next. One night, after falling asleep—Grandma and me in the bed, and Chris sleeping on a big blanket pallet on the floor—a big storm came in and part of the roof fell in on him. I laughed hard, thinking he finally got what he deserved. I thought God did it to teach him a lesson. My grandma said, “Buttercup, don’t you ever laugh at someone’s misfortune.” He was crying and I still didn’t feel bad, only pretended to care to please Grandma and God. We helped him up, and the next day he went home with a few cuts and bangs. The days got hotter, as summer dragged on, and Grandma began to run out of food from feeding me and Chris when she barely had enough to feed herself. One day, I was crying from the hunger. “My check comes tomorrow, baby, you’ll make it,” she said, as I held my stomach in hunger pains. “You want a donut hole?” She asked, breaking my moans of want. “Yes,” I said, sitting up in relief. I then realized a donut hole meant there was still nothing to eat. Feeling sorry for me, she gave me one of her Zoloft pills so that I could sleep. “This will put you to sleep, and when you wake up, we will have food again.” I took the pill. And for the next several hours laid in her bed, in a daze, forgetting I was hungry. When I regained myself, we ate a big meal of fried chicken and gravy and drank sweet tea.

I miss Grandma and all the things she’d say.