September/October 2011

Addie didn’t—couldn’t—believe what she was hearing Addie was perched precariously on the edge of her ruffled bed. Her mother was seated next to her, chewing on her lower lip as she so often did when something was troubling her. “Addie,” her mother started, then stopped to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her red T-shirt. “Mom, w-what is it?” Addie’s stomach was in knots. She wondered if her cat, Pumpkin, had run away again. “It’s Grandma, Addie. She… she…” Cinnamon Taylor drew a shaky breath before continuing. “She passed away, darling.” Addie didn’t—couldn’t—believe what she was hearing. “What?” “Grandma had cancer, Addie. She didn’t want you to know, so she hid it from you. She lost her hair and had been terribly sick. Grandma knew this was coming, but she didn’t want to upset you. You understand, don’t you? I hope you’re not mad at me for not telling you.” Addie stared numbly at her mother, who was valiantly trying not to cry in front of her. For the first few seconds, Addie felt nothing. She wasn’t sad, or happy, or much of anything really. But, as Addie gazed into her mother’s puffy eyes, the weight of the situation pressed down upon her. “No! Why did Grandma have to die? She… she…” Addie couldn’t speak anymore. Tears were flooding from her eyes. Addie grabbed the handheld mirror from atop her dresser and flung it against the wall. It shattered into a million tiny fragments. Addie continued to storm about the room. Her mother just watched, stunned. Addie had always been a calm child, no matter what situation she was faced with. When Cinnamon and her husband had told her of their decision to divorce a few years ago, Addie had just numbly nodded. Cinnamon had never seen Addie rage the way she was now. “Why did she have to die?” Addie kicked the bed angrily, as if it was the bed’s fault her grandmother had passed away. Suddenly, Cinnamon came to her senses and grabbed her daughter’s arm. Addie allowed herself to be enveloped in a hug. “I know, I know,” Cinnamon whispered. “She meant a lot to me too.” With that, the fight went out of Addie and she collapsed, sobbing, on her bed. *          *          * Addie continued to mope for the next week or so. One dull summer afternoon, Addie was lying on her stomach in her bed. She tried to concentrate on the novel she was reading, but to no avail. Like a boomerang, all thoughts strayed back to Grandma. Grandma had been more than just a grandmother to Addie. When Dad had left to go live in the middle of nowhere, Grandma stepped in. She helped Cinnamon adjust to being a single parent and was always around to babysit Addie or do whatever was needed around the house. Addie and Grandma, who was Dad’s mom, became close friends immediately. It was terrible that Grandma would never be around to talk or laugh with Addie anymore. Cinnamon quietly knocked on the door, then let herself in. “Come on, Addie,” she said softly. “We need to go to the lawyer’s office. Mr. Mitchell’s reading the will today, you know.” Sighing in resignation, Addie dragged herself out of bed and stared in the mirror. She saw Grandma’s dark, thoughtful eyes staring back. Addie wrenched a comb through her black hair. Realizing it was futile to try to tame her hair now, Addie threw the comb back on the dresser and waited at the apartment door. The ride to Mr. Mitchell’s office was long and quiet. Addie stared glumly out the taxi window at all the people rushing to and fro. She chewed the watermelon gum in her mouth without even tasting it. “Here we are,” the driver proclaimed, coming to a stop in front of a tall, glass building. Addie got out of the cab, then looked up and down the building in amazement. This place was nice. Cinnamon purposefully strode into the cool, air-conditioned lobby with Addie at her heels. The lobby was absolutely gorgeous. Addie craned her neck in an attempt to see everything at once as her mother led her up to the reception desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Mitchell,” Cinnamon told the receptionist. “Fifteenth floor,” the woman said, without looking up. “It’s suite 1503.” After the elevator ride, the pair found the office and quietly let themselves in. There was an empty waiting room complete with a dormant television and large leather seats. Addie wished she could’ve stayed home. Just then an adjoining door opened and a well-dressed businessman stood before them. He extended his hand to Cinnamon. “Hello, Ms. Taylor. I’m glad you could make it.” He smiled down at Addie, as one would do if amused by a small child. Addie glared back. She didn’t like this man. He was glad Grandma had died, just so he could get business. When his back was turned, Addie stuck her tongue out at him. Mr. Mitchell led the pair into his office. There was a huge window behind his desk that allowed a fantastic view of New York City. Addie caught a glimpse of water in the distance. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Nice view, huh?” Mr. Mitchell was talking to her again. He was seated behind his desk in a large leather chair. She just shrugged at Mr. Mitchell though, to show she wasn’t impressed with his office. “Both of you have been mentioned in the late Andrea Evelyn Taylor’s will. Shall I begin?” Cinnamon nodded, and Addie stared at her sneakers. “For you, Miss Addie,” he said cheerfully The man droned on forever about legal stuff, and Addie automatically tuned him out. She quickly took an interest again, however, when she heard her name. “And to Addison Matilda…” At this, Addie winced. Nobody called her by her full name, plus Addie despised her middle name. She had been named after a character in one of Roald Dahl’s books.

“Cora! Cora, lookit! Lookit me!” “Hey! Hey Cora! Look at me!” I looked up from my paperback. Somehow, Rose had hoisted herself up and into a little red wagon that stood by the fence. The little girl stood there, precarious but triumphant, her small arms stuck out to the sides for balance. I laughed inwardly at the look of mixed surprise and pride on my younger cousin’s sweet face. “Rose, honey, get down from there. Remember what happened last time?” I said, lifting her gently down from the wagon. “Uh huh,” said Rose rather sadly, fingering the small bruise on her forehead, obtained in a similar incident two days earlier. “I just like to be up high.” “I know you do, Rose, but it’s still dangerous. How do you think your mommy would feel if you fell down again?” Rose looked up at me seriously, considering. “Well, first she would be angry at me cause I’m not supposed to climb things. Then she’d yell at you for not taking care of me better. But after a while,” she proclaimed, brightening, “she would say that she was just glad I was safe and give me a Popsicle.” She looked up and grinned. “Can I have a Popsicle right now?” Not for the first time, I marveled at the four-year-old girl’s intellect. She was so observant for her age, sometimes it was frightening. “Not right now. Later, OK?” She nodded, then noticed something. “Cora, you brought your camera. Why,” she wondered aloud, “why did you bring your camera? Were you gonna take pictures?” “I thought I might, yes. Do you want me to take a picture of you, Rose?” The truth was that I had hoped to snap a few photos of my little cousin for my photography class. “Yeah! Yeah!” Scrambling excitedly, Rose ran to the fence. Turning around, she posed, one hand sassily placed on a little hip, the other thrown high, palm up, with the fingers trailing slightly, a movie star smile on her little face. Rose would have been a miniature model, if it weren’t for the knitted red-and-navy-blue sweater hanging around her torso in woolly folds. I resisted the urge to laugh, picked up my digital camera, and clicked. Rose dropped the model stance and dashed over to see the screen. We both laughed at the ridiculously adult pose. “I look funny, don’t I? Like the ladies in Mommy’s mazzageens. Is it later? Can I have a Popsicle now?” Reminding her for the hundredth time that it was mag-a-zines, not mazzageens, I ruffled my little cousin’s hair fondly. “No, it’s not quite later enough yet. Wait a little longer,” I said mildly, and returned to my book. Rose was truly a remarkable kid. For a few minutes, the small novel I held captured my attention. I leaned back in my cushioned lawn chair. Rose had settled comfortably down with a shovel and pail in the patch of dirt designated for her digging. I was sure she wouldn’t move for a while. Then suddenly, the cry came again. “Cora! Cora, lookit! Lookit me!” My head snapped up. Not the wagon again! But it wasn’t the wagon. It was Rose’s tree. Who knows how she did it? But in one way or another, Rose had climbed to a perilous perch again—when I looked up, her little body was wedged in a crook of the apple sapling her parents had planted when Rose was born. This was Rose’s tree, a monument to her life. She loved it fiercely and was never so happy as when she was, as now, nestled in its branches. My first instinct was to jump up and rescue my little cousin, but she looked perfectly safe and happy there in the tree, and I couldn’t resist the obviously perfect photo op. Snatching up my camera, I snapped a quick shot of the scene, then dropped my camera onto a cushion and lightly disentangled Rose from the tree. “Rose, I told you, no more climbing stuff!” I chided, a little more harshly than I intended. I could see my tone have an effect on her, her little shoulders sagging and her normally sparkling eyes downcast. I immediately felt guilty, gathering her up and whispering reassuring words in her little ear. “I’m sorry, Cora,” she said sadly. “I just wanted to see if I could get up by myself.” She brightened slightly. “You took a picture, didn’t you?” “I guess I did,” I said, remembering. Snapping the photo, jumping up and lifting Rose out of the tree were blended in my memory in one streamlined movement. I found it difficult to recall the moment of actually pressing the shutter button. I pulled up the photo on the small screen and looked for a long moment. In the photo, Rose’s knees were hooked over the spot where two of the branches met, her short little legs hooked over each other in a surprisingly ladylike manner. Her chubby left hand was coiled tightly around the nearest bough, and her right stuck out slightly in front, the elbow cupped between knee and branch. Rose’s face was turned straight toward the lens, and her crinkled eyes and half-grin made it seem as though she and I were sharing a secret or private joke—not funny enough to cause real laughter, but full of wit nonetheless. Looking at the surprisingly good picture, I struggled to make sense of my emotions. The picture made me want to laugh, but it strangely seemed to make me slightly sad as well. I knew that it was silly, but I had a sense that the tree, the one object Rose loved most, would one day be cut down. I wondered why this seemed so evident. At that moment, I knew I would save this photo. If future generations asked about it, the most truthful reply would be to say that this was Rose, that the picture summed up her as well as anything could. Because it did.