“See those, there?” Grandma says to me as she points to the peaches hanging from the branches. Her wrinkled face crinkles as she smiles, “Almost, now.” She tilts back her head, exhales in happiness as she looks up at the bright blue sky, “We got real lucky with the weather this year, hm. Should be a real perfect crop, come Harvest Day.” I nod. I don’t know much about perfect peaches, but the scent of them is strong, dreamy. Bees buzz past our ears, and the spring sun is warm on our skin. Grandma’s blue eyes are twinkling in excitement as she continues to admire the crop; she looks forward to “Harvest Day” all winter long. She pats my cheek in joy, and I can’t help but smile, too.
“Hello, out there!”
We turn. Mom’s on the veranda, waving at us. My smile fades as quickly as it came. “Lauren, you mind helping me with this lemonade?” she calls. I sigh, nod, and jog up the yard back to the house.
The wooden steps creak as I climb them. “What’s up?” I say, somewhat defensively. “Are you going to go see your grandfather?” my mother asks, her sharp tone a stark contrast to her sweet smile. I roll my eyes. Even when she knows Grandma’s too far away to see shit, she still thinks she’s gotta hide that she’s pissed at me. I glare at her, “Yeah, of course I am.” Mom gives me a look, “When?” “Ma-” I start, my voice raising. Her eyes widen angrily in warning. I shake my head, but oblige as I growl out through gritted teeth, “After I’m done helping Grandma.” “She can manage, and if she can’t, I’ll help her,” Mom says, “You, go see your grandfather.” I groan inwardly. She clicks her tongue, “Go on!” “Fine,” I say in annoyance, and push the screen door open. It screeches softly, and bangs shut behind me.
The whole house smells of spring, the curtains at the open windows dancing in the breeze. Our house growing up, too, smelled the same when the warm weather came. It’s an ache of memory, and the jump through time leaves me dizzy as I breathe it in. I look up the staircase, and the spin of memory fades. Reality returns. I start to climb the carpeted wood stairs, slowly, quietly, the railing cool under my palm.
I knock gently on the bedroom door, which is only just ajar, and push it open. “Grandpa?”
I push the door open and pause on the threshold. He’s at the large curtained window on the left, his back to me, motionless in his wheelchair. The whole room feels motionless, with every window closed and his radio turned off.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I say. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t even budge. Not that I would even know what to say to him, even if he did. I walk over to him. Still, he doesn’t turn. All right, I think, whatever. I pull over the rocking chair from one of the shadowed corners and sit next to him. His eyes remain steadily outward. They’ve gone blue in recent months, from worsening cataracts and age. But they’re sharp as ever, even with his inability to talk or hear well, to stand or walk on his own. I see them darting, blinking, taking in everything they can possibly take in. And when I look out, I see his view is directly of the peach grove. Through the small opening in the ivory curtains, I can see Grandma is right there, with Mom now, strolling up and down the rows.
Without a word, I get up and push the curtains fully to the side of the large window. I slide it open, and a breeze rushes in, as if it’s been waiting.
Grandpa coughs. I turn, but he stops almost instantly. He’s still gazing out the window. Like I’m not even here. I look around the room, which, too, has remained the same. Framed photos have been added over the years, of graduations and weddings and babies, but the furniture is all exactly as I remember it from when I was a kid. That color scheme of white-gold, faded sea green, dusty rose. All of it with a hint of Asian influence, I realize now, as if for the first time. I can only assume is from the time the two of them spent in Japan. Grandpa first, during the war. Then Grandma and him together, later on. Little touches, but it permeates everything, down to the wood bowls Grandpa himself carved that line some of the decorative shelves. But then, maybe they always liked this style. Maybe before they even met.
“So,” I say, “How are you doing today?” He actually moves, lifting a hand in a disinterested sort of wave, a slight nod of the head. “That’s good,” I say, “Maybe we can get you outside, huh?” He doesn’t seem to acknowledge this. “I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t been to see you and Grandma for awhile,” I say, “Work’s been busy, you know?” My voice lapses into silence upon hearing its own bullshit. Again, I feel that burning frustration. With myself, the not knowing what to say, or do. This man right here next to me is the man who raised my own mom, the man I’ve known for as long as I can remember, and yet, he feels like a stranger.
Grandpa shifts in his wheelchair. Tries to sit up straighter. I make as though to help him, but he holds up a hand that says no. So I watch him as he finishes readjusting. Then, he speaks. I frown. His speech drawling and slow, his jaw barely able to shape vowel sounds, let alone words. “Sorry, Grandpa, what did you say?” I ask, almost hating myself for having to. My older sister, our younger brother, Mom, they all seem to understand him. I alone seem to be unable to, like some unseen force deems me unworthy. Grandpa seems to sigh with impatience, then tries again. Louder, though his voice struggles past a rasp. This time, thankfully, I manage to grasp it. “Ah,” I repeat, “’The peaches are almost ready’. Yes, yes, they are.” Grandpa sinks into his chair in relief, nodding at my words, dabbing the drool at his lips with his handkerchief. “You want to go out there?” I ask, and a pang of self-hatred stings me again. Because I know part of me would be relieved if he did. We could go out there, and the crutch of others would alleviate all of this…this feeling that’s crushing me.
To my disappointment, Grandpa shakes his head no. I nod slowly, then sit back in my rocking chair once more, settling in for the long haul. I rest my hands on the arms of the chair, the wood cool and smooth on my skin. I see his hand reach out then, shaky and covered in spots. Its skin is nearly to the bone, so thin he’s become, and his veins protrude like a map of swelling rivers. In silence, I watch his hand reach further still, until it lands on top of mine. I’m shocked at the contact. He’s patting my hand now, and I can see the effort it’s taking him to do so. But when I look up at his face, he’s smiling, as if it’s bringing him all the joy in the world.
