Grandma

Grandma (Short Story)

As a physiatrist student, I've always been fascinated with the mind and how it works. Even as a child, my friends and I would play doctor where they would be the patient and I would play the doctor. Pretending to diagnose my friends and give them the medicine needed to make them feel better. 

In my fifth and final year at Harvard, it was customary to work with a clinic to write our final medical research paper along with our findings on a patient we observed and worked with.  Since I had already completed my hours at a clinic, my professor had given me permission to work with a client on my own. Since I had some down time and missed home, I decided I would go back to my home town in Middletown, Ohio. Although it's a small town with not much to do except for go to the small shops in the middle of town, or go to the bookstore ran by a very nice older woman or the movie theater which is about an hour away. 

"You should come home, I know the perfect person you could work with, here in town." Mom said over the phone. 

"Who could I possibly observe in town to write a twenty-page paper, Mom?" I said, rolling my eyes. 

"How about, Grandma?" Mom said with some enthusiasm.

"Leave her alone, honey. I'm sure she has other people in mind." Dad said, in the background. 

"No one wants to take care of her, but she's harmless. She's just misunderstood. She's from a different era in life, you know?" Mom Explained. 

"It sound an awful lot like you're trying to convince yourself and not me, mother" I said, jokingly. I sighed heavily, but if you think it's worth a shot, then I'll do it." 

Grandma wasn't really my grandma, she was someone that the whole town knew. She was considered everyone's grandma. When I was little, I could remember people dropping off goods and helping both her and her husband, Mr. Cromwell. 

Mr. Cromwell wasn't that nice of a person, having served in the military,  he was tough and a bit crude at times when it wasn't called for. But where he failed, Mrs. Cromwell... "Grandma" was the nicest. Mr. Cromwell died right as we were entering our last years of high school. Grandma and Mr. Cromwell was all they had of each other. They're were no known kids or at least they never spoke of any. 

I can remember Mr. Cromwell took care of grandma, who had suffered a lot of trauma in her life. Told that she was Schizophrenic, Mr. Cromwell stop letting people come over, no one ever seen any evidence of it,  but nonetheless, no one was allowed to come over. 

When he died, they tried to get grandma into a home, but she didn't seem to have any problems and the state couldn't make her leave. That was more than five years ago now. With my degree, it only seemed like an opportunity to find out what really happened or at least what she's been doing all these years. 

I hesitated at the front door of Mrs. Cromwell's house, the heavy wooden frame looming over me like a sentry guarding its secrets. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a prelude to the antiquated world I was about to step into. I took a deep breath and knocked, the sound echoing hollowly through the stillness.

The door creaked open, and I was immediately hit by a wave of musty air, thick with the scent of old wood, mothballs, and something faintly sweet, like aged perfume. The entryway was dimly lit, the weak sunlight struggling to penetrate the heavy drapes drawn tightly across the windows. Shadows clung to the corners, giving the space an aura of melancholy.

Stepping inside, I felt as though I had been transported back in time. The walls were lined with dark, richly patterned wallpaper, its intricate designs faded and peeling at the edges. Antique furniture filled the space: a heavy oak table with clawed feet, a Victorian settee upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, and a collection of delicate porcelain figurines displayed on a dusty shelf. Everything was meticulously arranged, yet there was an overwhelming sense of disuse and abandonment.