A long heal

THREE FIGURES

 

She didn't say 'boo', didn't drag chains. In fact, she didn't show herself, but I felt her, just as real as real could be. My grandma, so small, so old fashioned, so sweet, came into my room last night, sat down beside me on my bed. I glance and see no impression in the mattress but there she sits. Her cold, bony hand reaches out to touch me and the cold becomes warm. She has been missed over many long years. I do believe she knows how much I loved her. Bubby wore no scary white flowing sheet when she came in. I recognized her brown dress down to her ankles, her heavy black shoes laced tightly to touch the hem. The night she died she was wearing that dress. My mother returned from having been with her Mom as she breathed her last breath, gave me the sad news and handed me the fabric belt from Bubby's dress as a reminder of her. I never needed it. It remains a treasure of mine in my secret hiding place.

 

With Bubby sitting on the side of my bed, so close to me, I definitely smelled almonds. I looked into her soft gray eyes, saw the deep wrinkles on her cheeks and spoke to her. 'Bubby, were you baking cookies in heaven? Mamma still has the cookie cutters you used to use, hearts and diamonds. She gave me clubs and spades. I bake almond cookies for your great grand children. Have you seen my Eric and Betty?'' There are no words but a soft draft crosses my forehead,
envelops all of me.

 

A face, a most handsome face, formed slowly. In a hushed voice I said, 'Zadie, Zadie. Where is my vanilla ice cream cone? Where is your straw hat that smells of your summer sweat?' Did you see the big maple tree in front of my house? I planted it a long time ago to remind me how you liked to see the baby leaves unfold, to feel spring coming.  Every single April I see you but not as clearly as tonight. Look thru my porch window and you will see the rattan arm chair you bought for Bubby. My mother got it  when Bubby died and she put my name on it for when she would leave me. It's been mine for fifteen years and I paint it a different color every spring, always colors I knew you liked. Can we go outside so I can sit on your lap like I used to do? My beloved Zadie grows lighter and lighter and evaporates.

 

Bubby has sat near me while Zadie was here. I think I feel her fading away but hold her hand as tight as I can. 'Bubby, don't go. Maybe my Mommie will come to us soon. Stay, stay, a little longer. The dimming stops. Bubby stays. 'Bubby,' I say, 'can you hear that tinkling sound? Mommie must be coming. She put a little bell near the porch gate so if I opened it, she would know and make me come back home.

 

'Mommie, Mommie, I hoped you would come. Bubby is still here but may have to leave soon. Do you miss, me Mommie? I was a good daughter, wasn't I? I still have Bubby's belt, your cookie cutters and the rattan chair you left for me. Do you forgive me for all the mean, nasty things I must have done when I was little?' Mommie looks like smoke. She swirls and twirls around me and is gone–too soon gone.

 

My eyes open into slits. Jerome is sitting on a hard folding chair. He squeezes my hand. I feel him push a button on the side of my strange bed. Without making a sound a woman in white who I don't recognize comes in. She says not a word but takes my pulse, looks at a lot of machinery around me, says something into my Jerome's ear and leaves us.

 

I can barely mumble but think I ask him if my grandparents left and is my mother home making her gefilte fish for the holiday.