Grandmother Knows

One

Where do you go when you die? That's the million dollar question, isn't it? Do you stand before a magnificent gate of pearl, receive a halo and grand wings; burn in Hell for all eternity, or spend forever in the endless void of purgatory?

I'd like to imagine my mother in Heaven, angel wings and golden harps. Surrounded by bright light and looking down on me.
She was beautiful. She had silky black hair that fell in waves past her thin waist, and creamy ivory skin that glowed when the light washed over her just right. She was healthy, five miles a day she would run around the neighborhood, she couldn't function without starting her day off in active gear. Like clock work: wake up, smoothie, run, shower, cook breakfast. Every morning you could count on it.

That reliable schedule was extinguished two years, four months, and six days ago.

It was the middle of June, and beaming sunshine as always in Los Angeles. I remember that day turning gloomy as she came home from her checkup. A simple yearly physical and boom, less than a year to live.

Stage 4 breast cancer. It had already spread to her liver, and lungs. I watched in agony as my mother, the strongest woman I knew fight a battle that we all knew she'd lose.

She reminded me of a flower, the kind you don't want to pick because once the stem is cut a ticking clock counts down to its premature demise, she wilted.

On the day she died she made me promise to look after Nana LouAnn, "Protect her." She had told me. It didn't make any sense, Nana was safe and sound at Ashmour Nursing Home. The only danger there is the smell of the food carts, and bed pans. Nonetheless, I made her that promise and I meant it.

Since that day I visit my Nana every Sunday. When I was arrested, Nana was the only one who understood. "Your father would understand too if you told him why, Honey." She had told me after I was released from a holding cell. "I know Scott can be a prickly pear but tell him, it may ease the tension between you two."

***

My father sits at the breakfast table with Max and I, sipping his coffee and avoiding eye contact .

"You meet with your probation officer today Becky, I must insist you change that horrid tee shirt." He muttered, taking another sip from his cup that reads #1 DAD. Ha! I look down at my shirt, faded blue and broken in. Can't Touch This plastered across the front in large bold letters. I blink back up at him, "What's wrong with my shirt? I wear it all the time." I protest.

"Precisely, its ratty and inappropriate for a meeting. Don't argue. You're in enough trouble as it is." He warns.

His tone sends me over the edge, standing up from the table I blink at my father. So smug and righteous,

"She bought me this shirt for Christmas, remember Christmas Dad? Or have you forgotten what family holidays are? You know, for such a successful therapist you really suck at remembering details about your daughter!" His mouth parts a little, he wants to argue but he goes back to his news paper. I grit my teeth and leave. Storming from the table, into my room slamming the door behind me. A faint knock taps at my bedroom door. "Go away I don't want to talk to you!" I hiss with the door on my back.
"Its me." Max whispers behind the barrier. I open the door, its wind blowing my hair. Max stands holding a piece of bacon, his hands greasy and shining.

"Can you give me a ride to practice on your way?" He asks between chews. I want to tell him no, I have other things to do. But I know that our father doesn't care at all about getting his son to practice.
"Be ready in ten minutes, and wash your hands. I don't want greasy fingerprints all over my car, I just had it cleaned."

Max shrugs and disappears into his room, leaving a perfect hand print on his door handle.

Ten minutes later I wait in my car for my little brother. Blaring my speakers and cursing my changed-into tank top. Plain black, that should shut him up. I glance at myself in the rear view mirror, dark circles are beginning to form under my grey eyes from insomnia. My dark hair loose and untamed.