The Quilt

(I couldn't find my most recent draft on my computer, so I apologize if any typos occur)

         

   Surrounded by towering boxes, scantily clad mannequins and a herd of dancing dust bunnies, I clambered on hands and knees through the attic. I was careful as I did so, for nails sticking haphazardly from the boards were plentiful and my knees were bare in celebration of the fleeting and temperate days of summer. My mother had mandated that I scurry upstairs to retrieve a box labeled in sloppy sharpie scrawl "Halloween Decorations". She had proclaimed that I should make haste, yet here I was a whole hour or so later still clumsily attempting to complete her mission. After a few visions of what my mother’s fiery disposition would be like as I ambled ashamedly down the staircase empty handed and extremely tardy, I inaugurated panic mode and searched with the same intense vigor I had in the days when the only books to reach my hands were of the Where’s Waldo variety. I could almost hear my mother’s sharp words beating my eardrums as a bead of sweat dripped insidiously down my forehead. Beginning to give up hope I closed my eyes slowly, hung my head and grumbled, "Oh, monkey balls, this is useless". I have never been a particularly graceful young lady, so as I stood up I began to resemble one of those Weeble’s Wobble’s things. In the commercials they say "Weeble’s Wobble but they don’t fall down", but I wasn’t blessed with so much good fortune and balancing skill. I teetered, I tottered , and I thundered into a wall of cardboard boxes.

            Buried alive and drained from all my unheard caterwauling, I laid there limply beneath the contents of the boxes for countless minutes. As I breathed in the must I slowly dug through the sea of crap engulfing me. I was surrounded by more trash than the camera guy who films Jersey Shore. Never before have I seen so many disrobed troll dolls, patchy haired Barbies and gutted beanie babies. When I started finding Grandma’s delicates and ointments, I began ravenously thrashing my arms attempting to speed up the process. Whipping wigs out of the way I saw the wooden ceiling hanging above me. Free at last, I exhaustedly sat beside the heap of now unpacked junk. I grimaced as I imagined my mother's face red and fuming, advancing towards me in reaction to the number I did on the attic's organizational system. Diverting my eyes from the pile, I saw what I had come into the attic to find. Excessively annoyed, I through my head to the ceiling gritted my teeth and spit out the words, "Of course."

            As I bent down to pick up the box, I came to a halt. Sitting quaintly on top was Grandma Pearl’s quilt, unique in the fact that it was entirely uninviting. It was complete with a color scheme of different shades of vomit and was the most malodorous thing in the attic. Even though I was surrounded by stuffed squirrels, hundreds of cabbage patch dolls and Grandma’s signature gogo boots, this utterly unattractive blanket was the first thing I found that had interested me. I reached a quaking hand out and felt it’s surprising softness. I closed my eyes and remembered.

            My family had rarely seen Grandma Pearl in the last ten years. After Grandpa died the old lady became a globe trotter, only making one appearance in a decade. It was Christmas Eve of 2005 and I was ten. I vividly remember madly running to the front door upon hearing a faint knock, electrified at the irrational thought that it could possibly be Santa Clause. When I whipped open the door I frowned, for hovering above me was not a fat old man bearing gifts, but rather a toweringly tall old woman smiling from ear to ear. My eyes scanned the old lady up and down, shocked at the fashion atrocity beaming in my doorway. She was sporting plaid rain boots, a turquoise mumu, and a top hat over her synthetic red hair. I chose to greet the woman not with the classic, "Hello", but with a deer in the headlights facial expression. Grandma reacted by shaking her clenched fist at head level and calling out, "Wooshay! Wooshay!"

            Terrified, I slammed the door in the then strangers face. My eyes nearly bulged out of my head as I wailed "Dad!" at the top of my lungs. In the distance I heard my father’s voice call out, "What’s wrong?" as his footsteps thundered closer. "Dad, there’s a witch at the door! She tried to put a spell on me!", I animatedly clarified.

            My father, a very no nonsense kind of gentlemen, didn’t believe a word I said. He rolled his eyes as he opened the door. However, he stood there as a dear in the headlights just as I had only a few moments earlier The old girl shook her hand at head level once more as she sang "Wooshay! Wooshay!".

            I peered up at my dad, waiting for him to engage in combat with the witch. He appeared to be frozen, so I grabbed his icy, trembling hand and yanked it. Just when I began to fear that the witch’s "wooshay" hex had worked, my dad began to speak. Stammering, he nervously said, "Why, m-mother, y--y-you’re home, c-come in, come in."

            My heart came close to beating out of my chest for a few moments. Leaning on a cane, Grandma shuffled into the warmth of our living room. Our house was and still is like a museum. White walls, sterile, void of clutter. Grandma had not been wearing a jacket despite the fact that it was Minnesota in the dead of winter, so dad wrapped a throw blanket from the couch around her and sat her down. As she thawed she joyously spoke, "Oh, son, I never left home. My home is everywhere I go. The problem is that some homes are colder than other’s. "

            I rocked back and forth quietly taking in the woman I had heard so much about and yet had never seen. My parents weren't terribly fond of Grandma Pearl seeing as she was extremely rough around the edges. The old lady smoked a pack a day, hacked loogies, and was remarried to a man named Jim Beam. But the number one thing my mom and dad couldn't stand about Grandma was her tendency to hoard. She refused to throw away anything, and instead let her house fill up with lava lamps in every color. My parents knew that one day they would be faced with the laborious task of dealing with the plethora of junk Grandma had abandoned when she set off on her travels, and for this they resented her wholeheartedly.

            I was deep in a trance as I stared at the vibrant mesh of colors that covered my grandmother's boots when I heard her voice inquire, "So is this little turd my granddaughter?"

            Feeling her eyeballing me, I became anxious and leaped behind my dad. Grandma went on to excitedly exclaim, "I knew we'd hit it off! Hide and seek is my favorite game too!" She proceeded to circle my father like a shark and ensnared me with her brittle arms as she perilously barked, "Gotcha!".

            My metamorphosis into a banshee is the stuff of legends. I resembled Macaulay Culkin from Home Alone as I raucously screeched with my hands cemented to my face. As I did this my mother, conclusively displeased with my clamorous fit, waltzed into the living room bearing a delicately cooked and ready to be devoured turkey on a platter. She asserted in a distempered tone, "Okay, Lindsey, no need to scream. Dinner is ready." But then she cast her eyes on the scene in front of her and recognized the avant-garde woman at once. Just as dad and I had done when we laid our eyes on Grandma Pearl, mom went into a deer in the headlights state and dropped the plate she was carrying on the floor. The turkey rolled to dad’s feet as mom bounded back into the kitchen, wailing at pitches only dogs can hear. Grandma Pearl let me loose from her clutches and galloped maniacally after mom, all the while beckoning boisterously, "Corrine, you’re playing too? You finally got the stick out of your rear end! Good girl!"

            Mother didn’t hate anyone, but she very strongly disliked Grandma Pearl. This disdain was induced early on. After my dad brought my mom over to meet the parents at the start of their relationship, Grandma graciously presented Mom with a gift basket. As Grandma embraced her, Mom beamed, lit up at knowing how altruistic her future in law was shaping up to be. But when she got home she discovered there were bugs in the fruit and itching powder in the lotion. Grandma called it a friendly prank, mother called it cause for a lifelong grudge.

            My father and I quickly followed the two into the kitchen. We found mother crouched on the counter holding a pot and pan out in front of her attempting to shield herself from Grandma who was wiggling her fingers at her. Mom, seemingly traumatized, lamented to my father, "Todd, get your mother away from me! She’s trying to tickle me. You know how I feel about being tickled, Todd."

            "Yes, dear of course I do," Dad dejectedly murmured. Let’s just say that the last time dad had attempted to tickle mom, he came out of it with a black eye. Grandma giggled as she tickled mother’s exposed ankles.

            Mother let out a combination of a scream and a laugh. Attempting to regain composure she breathed in, then out, and powerfully warned, "Pearl, you are treading in dangerous waters. I am not afraid to hit a woman, no matter how much blood she shares with my husband or how elderly she may be."

            Grandma simpered and responded by saying, "Corinne, I know what you’re trying to say, and I wholeheartedly accept you’re invitation to dinner"

            Flabbergasted, Mother threw the pots and pans down with a clank, dismounted the counter and retorted, "Dinner! What dinner?!? The turkey is ruined”. Father brought her into a side hug and stroked her arm in an effort to calm her, but mother just broke free and wailed, "No, Todd, no! Don’t try to comfort me. Dinner is ruined!"

            Grandma held up her pointer finger as she began to dig into her purse. "You’re so fortunate I chose to grace you yahoos with my much in demand presence. I bring Easy Mac everywhere I go in case of emergencies," she said as she whipped out a royal blue box.

            Mother, defeated, brought her gaze to meet Grandma’s. With glistening eyes she droned, "Fine, Pearl, you can stay for dinner."

            Dinner was as silent as the grave. Grandma, perched at the head of the table, resembled the Mad Hatter with her top hat, flaming red locks, and giddy smile. Every few minutes the silence would be interrupted by Grandma whispering phrases like," jus jih latlh soj," which she claims means "pass me more food" in Klingon. Across from her was a place set for Paul, Grandma’s imaginary friend. Since she was five, many have attempted to get Grandma Pearl in touch with the reality that Paul is not a living breathing entity, but all had failed. Paul had been there for Grandma through everything, even accompanying her to her senior prom. My parents had given up long ago, so there sat a plate of savory potatoes and creamy Mac n’ Cheese going untouched.

            There was a long stretch of silence until Grandma broke it by thunderously breaking wind, ultimately bringing me to my breaking point. My parents seemed to have the notion in their mind that rolling their eyes would suffice, but I couldn’t take the oddness emanating from this obscure woman one more second. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I finally yelled. My father admonished me for my choice of words, but I pressed on, "You showed up unannounced after missing the first ten years of my life, just barged in, yelled weird things like "wooshay", grabbed me like a mad woman, tickled mom, had us set a place for a person that doesn't exist and finally…farted at the dinner table! Does any of this seem normal to you?"

            Mother and father put their knives and forks down with loud clinks and then let the lull return. Not knowing what to say, dad just gazed down at the heaps of food on his plate. Mom rubbed my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, honey. Her rudeness can be overwhelming. I’m still not used to it.”

            Grandma ferociously whipped her head to face me, allowing her brilliant green eyes to meet mine. She shoveled a huge spoonful of potatoes into her mouth and began to speak. All that was audible was mere mumbles and murmurs as Grandma showed us her chewed up grub. Dad grimaced as he peeled his narrowing eyes from his plate and directed them towards his primate of a mother and said, "Mom! Don't speak with your mouthful, you're being utterly undignified"!

            Grandma spit out the cud and scowled. "Sonny, you think that's undignified? You haven't seen anything! You are so young, you are so naive, and you have so never seen me at a Motley Crue concert," she lectured. Grandma pivoted to face me as her lips curled into a smile. Clapping her hands she said, "As for you, ya little brat, you deserve an applause."

            Baffled, I dispensed a disoriented stare in her direction. "What are you talking about?" I asked, completely peeved.

            "I get a kick out of you, kid. I got to say I doubted you at first, thought you were a mute. But you definitely have motzy. It must skip a generation," she proclaimed. She continued by saying, "But you have got a lot to learn. You can criticize me all you want, but don't go around harping on me saying "wooshay". It's how the Kanouri people in Niger say hello. You respect other cultures or we just won't get along, little missy. Now, if you don't mind, pass me Paul's plate. He's not hungry."

            The only sound in the room was of Grandma’s spoon attacking her plate. That old lady never ceased to baffle me. She was undoubtedly an odd ball, but somehow she had a way of receiving respect. At first she may have been off-putting, but now I was entertained, almost fascinated by her.

            Minutes past awkwardly by as we sat back and suffered through Grandma savagely inhaling everything in front of her. It was like watching a lion devour an antelope on the animal channel. Then Grandma threw down her spoon so suddenly it made all three of us jump in our chairs. My parents and I exchanged glances as we waited for her to speak. There was that silence again, looming in the air for about a minute until Grandma ardently asked, “So, are we just going to sit here and stare at each other like nincompoops or are we going to open presents?”

            “We normally open presents on Christmas morning,” my mother defiantly answered.

            The chance to open presents early was too tempting to be ignored so I added in my sweetest voice, “But traditions can easily be changed.”

            “I don’t know honey, it’s just,” Dad started to say until he was cut off by Grandma slamming her fist repeatedly on the table. She wildly smiled as she chanted, “Presents! Presents! Presents!” I joined in and pretty soon we had our way. The two of us exchanged a high five on the way to the tree.

            Truth is I don’t remember any of the presents that were under the tree that year aside from the three signed, “From Grandma Pearl and Paul.” Like Grandma herself, the gifts just had a way of upstaging everything else. She shuffled into the snow to grab the presents in from her black Escalade. She threw them on the beige carpeting and happily exclaimed, “Go wild, kiddies!” As Dad opened his gift he seemed frightened, looking as if a stink bomb would explode upon opening it. Knowing Grandma, he wouldn’t be out of line in fearing that. When dad finished ripping the wrapping paper off, which by the way had the women from the Golden Girls plastered all over it, no explosion was to be heard and no bothersome fumes emanated from the package. Dad just stared into the box. “What is it?,” my mother barked. Dad didn’t respond, he just held up the contents in his hand and meekly smiled.

            It was a bright blue toupee. Mother narrowed her eyes as she whipped her head in Grandmas direction and raised her voice as she said, “What are you trying to insinuate? You know full well that Todd still has a full head of hair… kind of. And anyways we have been over this, Pearl. My husband will not wear his his hair blue. Over my dead body.”

Grandma laughed and said, “That’s why I slipped arsenic into your share of the potatoes.” Mother gave her a displeased look.

            “It’s okay, Corrine,” dad said as he politely smiled, “ I love it, Mom. Really.”

            Grandma who was seated next to him on the black leather couch lovingly patted his head, kissed his cheek and then lovingly replied, “Duh.” I couldn’t help but pity dad a bit as I imagined the things he must have found under the tree his whole childhood, but mostly it amused me.

            “Now, Corrine yours is the big one,” Grandma said as she pointed her bony finger toward the two remaining gifts. Mom crawled over and picked up the present. It was about two feet tall and two feet wide. As mom neatly peeled back the paper, Grandma bellowed, “Goddamn it, open it like you mean it, you sissy!” Mother scowled as she took her advice. She savagely tore into it, most likely imagining the paper was Grandma’s face. Pretty soon the task was completed revealing that the gift hidden behind the Golden Girl wrapping paper was a Barbie cruise ship.

                        Mom had a baffled look on her face. “Thanks… Pearl. This is very random, but thanks. Lindsey will love playing with this” she replied and then opened the toy‘s box most likely searching for a twist.

            “Ah, she’s two mature for toys anyways, right Lindsey?” Grandma inquired.

            My heart screamed “No, no, no give me the cruise ship,” but I wanted to live up to Grandma’s alluring description of me as being mature so my reluctant words were, “Yeah, Grandma’s right. That stuff’s for babies.” It hurt to say as I sat there ogling the glorious bright pink package.

            Out of nowhere Grandma burst out laughing. Her cackle bounced off the living room’s plain white walls as she through her chin towards the ceiling. Once she got her self under control she took a deep breath and said, “The kid knows how to tell a joke. Another quality that skipped a generation.” Dad rolled his eyes as Grandma patted his thigh and continued, “Just kidding, son. Your choice of tie is always hilarious. Anyways that was a good one, you little turd. We all know that you can never outgrow playing with toys. Now, open yours, you‘re going to love it. I can feel it in my bones.”

            I crawled over to the last gift sitting in the middle of the beige carpet. I bit my lip as it pleaded, “Rip me open!” Once I was done savagely tearing Betty White’s face into shreds, I disappointedly gazed at the shabby quilt positioned in my lap. Grandma was perched on the edge of the couch, leaning intently towards me. Her face was eager as she waited for my response. “So? What do you think?” she feverishly queried, as if my answer meant the difference between life and death.

            I remained mute and I don‘t exactly know why. Dad attempted to assist me. “Wow, mom! Did you make this? This is… beautiful,” dad lied. Mom nodded in false agreement.

            “Of course! Who else could create a quilt with such craftsmanship,” Grandma happily responded, but still her eager eyes bore into me as she awaited my response.

            I weakly smiled and said, “Thanks, Grandma, I love it.” When I said thank you to Grandma, I attempted to say it in an enthusiastic manner, but being a child of only ten, I was not that good of an actress. I’m sure she could tell that I was expecting something else by my long face. To be honest, I don’t exactly know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t a haphazardly assembled blanket. We all remained in our seats as silence hung in air like the ornaments did on the tree. Grandma was once again the one to break the hush as she quickly, captured the blanket from my lap.

            “On second thought, there’s still some work I need to do on it,” Grandma Pearl said and then inquired, “You don’t mind if I take this and give it back to when it’s done, do you, Lindsey?”

            “Sure, that’s fine with me,” I quietly answered as I crumpled the wrapping paper into a ball. Then, it came back. The silence. Moments past until Grandma would dutifully break it by saying, “Well, I guess I should be off. I want to get off the roads before the storm comes”

            We said our goodbyes. Once she was done hugging my father and me, mom approached her with open arms. Grandma took this opportunity to swarm in and tickle mom’s stomach. She let out her signature cackle as mom swatted her away. After that Grandma tipped her top hat, gave us one last toothy grin, and with that she was gone. Grandma made frequent phone calls from all sorts of odd, foreign places over the next six years, but other than that I never saw her or her hideous blanket again.

            Just as the quiet began to suffocate me as I stared at the blanket that summer afternoon, the attic window slammed open. I jumped in my skin as I let out a terrified shriek. “Lindsey, stop goofing around in there. Hurry up!” my mother roared.

            “One second mom,” I bellowed back.

            That’s when I noticed the writing stitched on the quilt. It read, “To Lindsey, it’s true that some home’s are colder than others, but I know you’ll always find a way be warm. Love, Grandma Pearl.” After a few moments, I smiled a grin much like Grandma’s. I bundled the blanket in my arms and ambled my way to the staircase. Maybe some things in this house were worth holding on to.