“Holy shit.”
I whip my head in the direction of the shout and see my Grandma on all fours, a puff of grey barely poking out from under the yellow sun hat she’s sporting. Her face, covered in two inches of soot, gives her raisin skin an airbrushed look. From a distance she looks as youthful as the creepy china dolls Mother displays on the cedar shelf in the living room. If I snapped a picture and showed it to her she’d feel inclined to spend the whole day admiring herself. Grandma’s known to ramble on and on about how beautiful she once was: olive skin, long dark hair, thin but curvy. “Not much different from you, dear, except for that awful nose of yours,” she once said. “You can blame your father for that.”
“Grandma, if the neighbors hear you, they’ll start talking and then I’ll have to start defending and I really don’t feel…” my voice trails off. Grandma’s not listening. She hasn’t even turned around to acknowledge my presence. I’m tempted to hit her over the head with the shovel laying on the ground next to her. Rose probably would’ve. We both agree that it isn’t fair that I have to babysit an adult.
“Bee Ellen,” Grandma calls from the other side of the yard. “If you contained half as much enthusiasm for gardening as you do analyzing my every move, you might’ve noticed the giant pile of dog shit lingering in the mulch.”
A sly smile peeks through the corner of Grandma’s mouth. It reminds me who I’m dealing with. Grandma knows I hate it when she uses my full name. I know she hates it when I try to do things for her.
“Would you like me to run and get the scoop?” I say.
“No dear, I don’t want you to scoop it… I’m afraid you couldn’t possibly understand.”
I’m not sure what I could possibly be misunderstanding, I’m just as smart as Grandma even though I know she thinks I’m dumb.
One time I heard her and my Mother talking about how they think I have my Dad’s brain. She’s always comparing me to him. It’s probably because she was a mean girl. At least, that’s what Rose and I think. Rose knows all about mean girls. She told me she used to be one too so it’s easier for her to spot them.
“What do I not understand?”
“I want you to look at the poop and tell me if you feel anything.”
She’s crazy. Usually I’d just ignore her but I know Rose will appreciate the story more if I play along. We walk back to the flower bed. The mulch is spilling out of a True Value sack and onto the grass. She’s neglected to pull any weeds. We’ve been out here for four hours and the only thing she’s managed to do is find a piece of shit. I planned to pull the weeds myself, but Rose thought it would be fun to put her to work. She’s probably been daydreaming the whole day. Daydreaming about shit. What a waste of time.
I can feel her staring at me, waiting for confirmation that this poop, somehow, moved me.
“Well I, uh, I guess I did feel something,” I say.
“Dear, there’s no sense in lying if you aren’t going to be convincing. When I knelt to pick it up, a shiver pierced my spine and I felt warmth.”
I start to giggle. I can’t help it, the whole story is ridiculous. My grandma really is crazy. A story like this means that we’ll probably have to move her into some sort of home soon. Most kids would be sad about their Grandma moving out. Most kids don’t have to babysit their grandma. Plus, when she leaves, Rose can sleep in her room again.
“Are you going to continue mocking me?”
I bite down on the inside of my cheeks to stop myself from laughing any longer and shake my head no, so that she sees I’m ready to hear more.
“You see, dear, I’ve been possessed several times. When I was around your age, probably sixteen or seventeen, my girlfriends and I meddled with witchcraft.”
I’m twelve.
“My friend Aggie summoned spirits after school. It was a trick her grandmother taught her and I doubt I’ve ever mentioned this, but I was quite beautiful back then.”
Only every day.
“And Aggie must’ve agreed because she insisted my aura was alluring: perfect for possession. Soon, various spirits were jumping into my body every afternoon. I sat in a wicker chair on the front porch while the girls walked around me chanting incantations: the volume of their voices working in a gradual build. The first few times my body grew heavy until I fell asleep. I never remembered a thing.”
Well that’s convenient.
“On the fourth try, however, my whole body stung like it’d been torched but when I looked down, I saw thousands and thousands of beetles gnawing their way through my flesh. I tried to stand up and shake them off but then the curtains fell over my eyes and all I saw was black. Nothing I’ve felt since ever compared. When I touched the poop, I automatically assumed a spirit ran through me, but the feeling was off. This one felt warmer, I liked the feeling of this shiver. It took me a minute to realize, but that dog shit isn’t haunted. It’s holy.”
“Holy shit,” I say, finally understanding.
She’s told countless stories over the years but this one might be the absolute weirdest. I mean, there’s no way she ever actually messed around with witchcraft. Mother says our family is very Catholic. Of course, that hasn’t stopped Rose and I from playing with magic, but I’m not really supposed to talk about that. Rose says we can’t tell anyone. Ever.
“I was thinking about putting it in a shoe box. That way none of the other animals can get to it,” she says. “I would hate for us to lose it. It’s a real gift, you know. If we keep this in the house the Lord will bless us. Trust me.”
Disgusting. I’ve really screwed myself over by playing along. My Mother will smell it the second she steps through the front door and blame me. If Mother grounds me, Rose says I should take the holy shit and smear it all over Grandma’s face.
______________________________________________________________________
I’m leaning over the bar working on a crossword puzzle when Mother arrives home from work. The glare from the setting sun reflects off the kitchen window, making it impossible to see without squinting. I’ve gone over my plan of action several times at this point: get rid of the box, convince Mother that Grandma’s problems are beyond my care, and distract Grandma so she forgets about this afternoon. The last one shouldn’t be hard. She forgets everything all the time. The other day she called me Tiffany, my mother’s name. I almost yelled at her, but she realized her slip up almost immediately and looked kind of sad. It’s hard to yell at someone who looks sad. Even if they forget your name and make fun of your nose. When I told Rose that I felt sad for Grandma she told me to stop being soft. Apparently, Grandma was manipulating me. Rose thinks lots of people manipulate me.
The first thing Mother says to me is: “Where’s Grandma?”
“Yes! My day was wonderful. Thank you for asking,” I say.
She cocks an eyebrow at me.
“We can talk about your day later,” she says. “Something happened at work that I need to tell Grandma about. Why isn’t she down here?”
“I want to know what happened! Tell me what happen–”
“Not now Bee,” she interrupts.
I point at the stairs sheepishly. Grandma’s been in her room since we came back inside, and I haven’t checked on her. She was drenched in sweat so I assume she showered or took a bath, but I can’t tell Mother that because then she’ll ask why Grandma needed a shower in the middle of the afternoon. Grandma really isn’t supposed to do yard work. She could have a heat stroke, but both Rose and Google said she would probably be fine, so I took the chance. After all, Mother left me in charge. I guess my demeanor gave me away, though, because Mother sprinted to Grandma’s room after telling me how selfish I am. Maybe I should rub the holy shit all over her face instead of Grandma’s.
I follow her up the stairs to see if I can eavesdrop on their conversation but when I reach the top step I’m met with a roar of laughter. Mother and Grandma have a way of making you feel left out when you aren’t even in the room with them. They don’t laugh like that with anyone other than each other. Especially not with me or Dad.
Sometimes I think my Dad left because he felt like Mother loved Grandma more than him. I don’t remember them ever fighting before Grandma decided to live with us, but pretty soon he was all “I’m staying late at the office,” and that turned into Mother saying “Can I see your phone? I want to see who you’ve been texting.” I don’t know what lady my dad was texting, but Mother threw him out of the house when she found out. He brought her flowers every day until she let him move back in. They sat me down on our leather couch and told me all about how they planned to “work on things” but Dad left again a week later. I haven’t seen him since. Rose says that people get divorced because of dads texting women who aren’t their wives all the time, so I’m not sure why married men are even allowed to have phones. They’re as bad for your relationship as having your mom move in.
Mother calls me from Grandma’s room. “Grandma and I are going out for dinner. We’ll grab you something to-go.”
After they leave, I start the trek down to the basement. I stashed the shoe box there and know I need to do something else with it before it attracts flies. When I open the door, the stench immediately fills my nose and causes my stomach to turn on its head. I sprint to Dad’s old tool box, rummage through it until I find a painter’s mask, throw it on, and rush out the side door. I’d like to bury the box behind the apple tree at the end of the street. Rose despises that part of the neighborhood and I don’t want her to see where I bury it.
By the time I reach the tree it’s nearly dusk. I’ve never heard of any laws against digging holes in other people’s lawns, but I figure I better be fast anyway. I forgot to grab the shovel, so I struggle to use my hands to scoop the dirt and toss it behind my back.
“Bee, is that you?”
Shoot. I recognize the voice immediately; it belongs to a girl named Molly Flannigan. Rose and I used to be best friends with her. We attended the same elementary school and sat by each other on the bus. Rose doesn’t like many people, but for a while, Molly was an exception. She’s the only other friend we’ve ever had.
“Oh, hi Molly. You’re probably wondering why I’m digging a hole in your yard.”
She cocks an eyebrow at me.
“I, um, I’m trying to bury this shoebox.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Why? Whats in it?”
She reaches for the box but turns away and plugs her nose.
“It’s private Molly. I can take it somewhere else if I need–”
I don’t know how I will explain if she looks in the box. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. Rose is always right about people.
“No, no, its fine,” she interrupts.
“Aren’t you going to go tell on me or something?”
I snatch the box up and prepare to run home, but she stops me.
“Look, I don’t know what’s in that box, but it stinks, and I’d like to get it underground. Besides, we should catch up. How’s your Mom doing? My mom told me that your Dad left. I’m sorry. I know that’s tough, but at least you have your Grandma to keep you company.”
“Yes, at least I have her.”
I keep my eyes focused on the ground in hopes she’ll leave, but instead, she sits down next to me. I shoot her a questioning look.
“What? I’m trying to help. We used to be close friends. Don’t you remember?”
I do. Rose just always said that Molly forgot all about us. Molly is super popular; she talks to everyone at school and has more friends than most people have acquaintances. Why would she even care that we used to be friends?
“Of course, I remember.”
We loved playing red rover and dolls and braiding each other’s hair. I’d never tell Rose this, but I really enjoyed having another friend, but one day during recess Molly coaxed me into playing tag with her and our other classmates. Rose can’t play tag so she felt left out and told me Molly was trying to ruin our friendship. I’ve seen her around a couple of times since then, but Rose made me swear to never speak to her again. I always try to keep my promises.
While we dug, we talked about our school and our teachers and the drama she has with her boyfriend. Well, she talked, and I listened. It was completely dark by the time we finished. She gave me a hug and made me swear to sit with her at lunch when school returns in September. I walked back home under the light of the lamp posts and thought about our conversation. I realized she never mentioned Rose. No one ever mentions Rose.
——————————————————————————————
“I was not trying to kill Grandma yesterday Mother,” I say. The flyer she stuck on my door this morning read: “Bee Ellen is grounded until further notice after receiving word that she tried to cook her elderly Grandma in the Florida heat.”
“I asked you to do yard work. You. Not Grandma. If I wanted her to do it then I would’ve asked her. Sometimes, I don’t know how I gave birth to you.”
I struggle not to roll my eyes. It wasn’t even my idea. It was Rose’sbut I’ve tried blaming Rose before and Mother never believes me. Besides, Grandma is going to die no matter what. Rose told me that sometimes it’s better to speed up the process. She says the younger you are when you die, the less you suffer. Still, I wasn’t trying to kill Grandma yesterday. Though, Rose might have been. She’s sick of sharing me with her all the time.
“Grandma was more than willing to help, and I assumed she was fine considering I heard you two up there having one of your secret talks and laughing at me.”
“We weren’t laughing at you; we were just laughing. You know how close we are. Also, I was joking when I said you tried to kill her. I… I know you’re not capable of hurting anyone.”
I can’t help but notice how her voice lacked confidence.
“Bee, I just wish you looked out for Grandma more. We’re all she has.”
I haven’t heard Mother’s voice sound that hollow since Dad left. Her eyes start to get all wet and I think about hugging her but stop myself. Rose is already furious with me for hugging Molly. She will throw a fit if I hug Mother too. I really thought she wouldn’t see me talking to Molly, but Rose always knows when I “betray her.” I don’t mean to, but sometimes I just forget to think of Rose before I do things. She hates that about me.
“I need you to cook breakfast, I’m about to head to the office,” Mother says.
I walk to the fridge and gather the ingredients I need for a spread of scrambled eggs, french toast, fresh fruit, and bacon. I’m almost done cooking when mom storms into the kitchen.
“Seriously Bee? What possessed you to waste everything in our fridge?”
Mother does this all the time. She asks me to do something. I do it. She doesn’t like how I do it. She yells at me. I don’t know why I ever do what she tells me. I’d get in less trouble if I simply ignored her. Instead, I try to be a good daughter even though it never works. She always thinks I screw up on purpose. Maybe I should.
“I thought if I made all of Grandma’s favorite breakfast foods, she wouldn’t be mad about yesterday.”
“I’m sure. Everything you don’t eat needs to go in the fridge. Deal?”
The bacon starts to sizzle. It’s almost done cooking. I turn up the heat.
“Deal.”
———————————————————————————————————
I’m sitting on the couch flipping through channels when the smoke from the kitchen wafts into the room. I smirk. Nothing like a smoke alarm to start Grandma’s day. Rose says this will make up for my talking to Molly. Things have been too quiet around here; she was so bored. I will do anything to stay on her good side. If people knew better, they would too.
The alarm sounds. I hear rustling upstairs and suddenly Grandma’s hobbling into the kitchen.
“BEE? BEE! Come help me turn this off NOW.”
I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
“What? Grandma? What’s happening? I must’ve fallen back asleep. I was trying to make you bre….”
“NOW BEE. GET IN HERE NOW,” she shouts between coughs.
I hold my breath and run into the kitchen. Grandma’s struggling to open the window. I push her out of the way and do it myself. She already turned off the stove. I grab her arm and drag her out the front door.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us trying to catch our breath. I wonder about the rest of the food. Will it taste too smoky to eat? She rears her hand back and slaps me.
“You bitch. You evil bitch. My child, the devil sent you. You’re as despicable as your father.”
————————————————————————————————————
I wipe the tears away as I run down the street. I hate her. I hate my Mother. I hate my Dad. They hate me too. Mom brought Grandma here to make me miserable. I just know Grandma was the person Dad texted. She must’ve convinced him to leave me. She ruins everything.
I want to be alone but Rose beats me to the apple tree. She shouldn’t be here. She hates it here, but she would do anything for me. Why do I ever betray her?
She hugs me. She tells me it will all be okay. She tells me I’m not my father, not at all. She tells me she loves me, that’s all that matters. She tells me she can fix everything if I just let her. She tells me to trust her. I do.
———————————————————————————————————
When I get home, I put on the same mask I wore to bury the shoebox to clean the kitchen. The inside of the pan looks like tar in the summer. I throw it out. Mother will be mad about that, but she would also be mad if I saved it.
I haven’t spoken to Grandma since she slapped me. I’m sure she’s upstairs napping again. I’ll wake her in a few minutes to eat the leftovers. I save her the worst pieces and throw the rest out. I’m not hungry.
I head to her bedroom, but when I get there, the bed is empty, so I check the bathrooms, Mother’s room, my room, the attic, the basement, and all the closets. She’s obviously pouting somewhere secret. She should be apologizing to me. She’s a monster. I never would’ve done it if she didn’t make my life hell. I don’t want to waste the rest of the day on her. I gather the gardening supplies so I can finish what we started yesterday.
Grandma’s lying in the same spot she was when she found the holy shit, her head hidden behind the True Value sack. I make my way over to her.
“Can you move? I’m going to finish pulling the weeds.”
No response. She might be the only 80-year-old woman in the world who still believes in the silent treatment.
“If you don’t I swear to god I will…”
Grandma’s chest isn’t moving. Her lips look purple against the baby powder white of her skin.
The shoebox lies at the edge of her feet. A small piece of paper towel, grey from the smoke, lies on top. “She’s dead. You’re welcome.” I hug the note to my chest and fall to my knees.
“Thank you,” I sob.
“Thank you.”
—————————————————————————————————
I light candles in the kitchen to mask the remaining smell and gather the shoe box and note and re-bury them under the apple tree. Molly waves from her window as I walk past.
Mother arrives home at 3:00 P.M. and screams when she sees Grandma’s body lying in the flower bed. I pretend to have just woken from a nap. She calls 911. The paramedic tells us the cause of death is most likely a heart attack “induced from stress.”
“Did anything out of the ordinary happen today? Anything that might have caused your Grandma immense stress?”
“I burned the bacon,” I say.
———————————————————————————————————
The next day Mother makes me go with her to pick out an urn for Grandma’s ashes. We choose a white one with golden trim in the shape of a shoe box. When we get home, I remember to change the linens. Rose will be mad if I don’t. She hates dirty sheets.