My Sweet Annie

17

Ana was hesitant to go up to the studio, considering the circumstances that had brought her out to the farm: my piteous fragility of mind.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" She lingered at the bottom of the stairs, her hand on the banister.

"Of course not," I said. "The studio is yours, and besides, you came all this way. It might as well be worth your while."

She pursed her lips, giving me a look that made me feel off-kilter and shy. She went up the stairs with exaggerated slowness, Porkie trailing with considerably more effort. At the top of the stairs, Ana stopped to offer enthusiastic encouragement. "Come on, girl! You can do it! Work those calves! Squeeze those glutes!"

Later, as I sat at the dining table trying to read the Christie novel I'd started, the soft creak of the floorboards above me reminded me that I was not alone in the house. It was strange that such a sound reassured me. After the scare I'd had, weird noises should have creeped me out, but it was good to know that Ana was there, even for a little while.

It occurred to me that there would be no better time to start with Gran's room than now. I wasn't alone in the house, but Ana was enjoying the studio upstairs, so I wouldn't feel rude for working. Besides, I wasn't making much progress with my book. I'd read the same page five times without retaining a single scrap of information.

I didn't want to go back in there. The thought made me feel a little sick, in fact. But I had to do it. I had to get through this monumental project, and now I felt like the sooner I could do it, the better. What might have been a leisurely stay in the country quite a ways from home had become a lot less appealing.

I didn't let myself think for too long. I got up and went straight in, flicking on the yellow overhead light on the way. It looked just as it had earlier in the day: dark furniture, embroidered cushions, naked mattress.

No ghostly figures.

I stared at the corner for a moment, trying to understand what it was I had seen earlier. Maybe it really had been a shadow cast by something outside, or a fold of the blue lace curtain glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. I couldn't quite make either one of those explanations work in my head, but I didn't want to dwell on it, either.

"How do people do this?" I asked the silence. "I guess I just...start."

I went to Gran's dresser and pulled open a drawer. My grandmother was not a materialistic person, but she had spent almost her entire life out here in this house, and the sum of stuff she had accumulated across each room of the house was incredible: books, knickknacks, photographs, furniture, gadgets, clothes. There were enough blankets, quilts, and afghans throughout the house to warm an army—every room had two or three extra blankets in the closet, plus what was on the beds, and there was a whole side cabinet full in the living room.

Most of her things were were in good repair. As I began to sort through her clothes, I marveled at the dearth of holy socks or threadbare sweatshirts. My own pajama drawer alone had more worn-out seams than Gran's entire wardrobe did.

Among her clothes were a few soft flannel shirts that I set aside, sturdy, unisex garments that Gran had worn in the yard or to do housework. I imagined Mom and Tim each taking a couple of them. I could try some on, but they were all smaller than I was, so I doubted that they would fit me comfortably. Almost everything else when it came to Gran's clothes could be donated. Or maybe they could be sold in the estate sale. Did people come to estate sales to buy clothes?

I wondered vaguely if Edith might be interested in any of Gran's garments. How did you go about asking somebody such a question? Would she find it weird or would she find it comforting?