“It’s only a week, Bea, it’ll be over before you know it,” Bea’s mother said as they pulled into her grandmother’s driveway. Every year since Bea was 10, her parents shipped her off to her grandma Helen’s house while they went on vacation as part of some timeshare they bought when Bea was a baby.
For most kids, a trip to their grandparents meant home-cooked meals and five-dollar bills slipped quietly into the palms of their grandchildren when no one was looking. But for Bea, it meant dusting the living room and listening to her grandmother’s snappy comments about “kids these days.” It wasn’t that her grandmother was mean; that would require her to actually speak to Bea. She was just cold; she never asked Bea how school was or offered any stories of her own. Instead, Bea spent the week staying out of her way and picking up her own hair from the bathroom floor.
“If you say so,” Bea mumbled as her mother parked the car. Her grandmother was sitting on the porch, her lips in a thin line. Bea slowly got her bag out of the backseat while her mother walked up the driveway to greet Helen. “Thanks for taking care of Bea for the week,” Bea heard her mom say, and she had to force herself not to roll her eyes. When she reached the porch, she dropped her bag and leaned in to kiss her grandmother on both cheeks, a ritual she always found to be odd.
“Hello, Grandma,” Bea said, trying to scrub her voice of any apprehension. Her grandmother gave her a tight-lipped smile as she eyed her up and down.
“Your hair is getting too long, Beatriz,” Helen told her, as if this was an appropriate way to greet her only granddaughter. Before Bea could tell her for the millionth time that she preferred “Bea,” her mother stepped in.
“Well, I’d better get going. Thanks again, Mom,” she said, one hand on Bea’s shoulder. She gave Bea a look that threatened her to behave and placed a quick kiss on her temple before walking back to her car.
“Let’s get you settled,” Bea’s grandma said, getting up from her wooden chair and opening the screen door, not bothering to wait for Bea to follow. Bea picked her bag up off the porch. With one hand on the metal door handle, she looked up at the blue sky and said a quick prayer to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in.
The room that Bea stayed in every year had once been her mother’s. From the looks of it, her grandmother hadn’t bothered to change a thing. The single bed was covered in the same itchy white sheets and a multicoloured wool quilt that smelt of mothballs. There was a small bedside table that was always stacked with different paperbacks from various authors. The novels ranged in genre from romance to mystery and the occasional horror. Bea never read the books; the yellowish pages left a film on her fingertips, and the print was too small.
“When you’re done unpacking, you can meet me downstairs. I have some boxes that need moving,” Helen told her, shuffling out of the room before Bea could answer.
About 10 minutes later, Bea joined her grandmother downstairs and found five cardboard boxes lying on the carpeted living room floor. Helen was sitting on the love seat, sipping on what Bea assumed was chamomile tea.
“Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you got lost,” her grandmother said, placing the mug on the table beside her. Helen Gray was not the type of person who made jokes—or smiled, for that matter—so instead of laughing, Bea mumbled an apology and sat on the couch farthest away.
“I need you to bring these boxes out to the garage,” she pointed towards the brown boxes with her bony finger. Bea stifled a groan. Why couldn’t her grandmother teach her how to knit or bake cookies like all of her friends’ grandparents? Why did hers only use her for physical labour?
“What’s inside?” Bea asked, and as she leaned forward to peel back the cardboard flap, her grandmother made a hissing sound.
“I didn’t say look inside, I said put them away!” she exclaimed, causing Bea to sit up straight, her hands by her side. As Helen stared at her, her dark eyebrows knitted together, Bea realized why she never yelled. She didn’t have to; her voice was scary enough as it was.
“When you’re finished, you can join me in the kitchen to help prepare supper.”
Bea swallowed thickly and nodded so as not to upset her further.
Unlike the rest of the house, which was so clean it could make a health inspector cry, the garage was cluttered with Bea’s grandfather’s old tools, paint cans, and random pieces of furniture that belonged to her aunts and uncles. Helen rarely visited the garage, claiming the dust bothered her allergies.
As Bea heaved the last box onto one of the only empty spots left, she sat down on one of the lawn chairs she believed belonged to her mother. She knew she should go back inside. She could picture her grandmother standing over the sink peeling potatoes as she waited.
But Bea was in no mood to chop onions and pretend like they weren’t burning her eyes, or get scolded for not steeping the tea long enough.
Instead, she opened one of the cardboard boxes, her curiosity finally getting the best of her. Inside were leather-bound albums stacked neatly in a pile. Bea looked quickly over her shoulder, making sure her grandmother wasn’t watching, and picked up an album from the top. When she opened it, she almost gasped.
There were rows and rows of mostly black-and-white photographs. At first, she couldn’t recognize the people in the pictures, but as she flipped the pages, she realized who she was looking at. The same perpetual scowl on one of the girls’ faces matched perfectly with her grandmother’s.
Carefully, Bea slid a photo out of its plastic sleeve. It was taken in a kitchen, with a wide array of food placed on a table. Around it were four children, most of them younger than 10, but in the corner sat her grandmother, arms crossed and face cold. Bea turned the photo around to find someone had written a date in red ink: Christmas, 1948. Bea quickly did the math in her head. Her grandmother would’ve been 14, the same age Bea currently was.
So she’s always been miserable, Bea thought to herself. She slipped the photo back where it belonged and placed the album in the box. As she got up to walk towards the garage door, she tripped on an old wrench, sending her tumbling down onto the hard concrete.
“Hello? Are you alright?” a muffled voice said, and Bea could feel them shaking her. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer lying on her grandmother’s garage floor, but instead outside on what she assumed was a sidewalk. Above her was a girl with a look of concern spread across her face.
“What happened?” Bea murmured as she tried to put the pieces together.
The girl shrugged and looked around. “You were just lying there like a fish out of water,” she replied, her voice rough and oddly familiar.
The girl held out her hand, and Bea took it, sitting up. She was in what seemed to be a suburban neighbourhood. All the houses had perfectly manicured lawns with matching oak trees. They were small and looked like they were built right after each other.
“Where am I?” Bea asked, mostly to herself.
The girl, who was now crouched at her level and laughed. “You must’ve fallen pretty badly if you can’t remember that you’re in Chicago.”
Bea felt a wash of relief; at least she was still in Chicago. But the neighbourhood didn’t look familiar; maybe she was in a different town? Bea was about to ask the girl where exactly they were when her whole body went cold.
For the first time, Bea got a good look at her. She looked around her age, and she was wearing a red and white knee-length dress. Her hair was tied into a neat ponytail, and she was carrying a paper sack of groceries. To most people, this was just a regular girl.
But Bea recognized those thick eyebrows, the button nose and the same on her own face. Most of all, Bea recognized her mouth. The girl wore the same uninterested scowl as her grandmother, Helen. Bea blinked a few times, unable to believe what was happening. There was no way this girl was her grandmother, right?
She cleared her throat. “Do you know what year it is by chance?” she asked, her voice shaking.
The girl, presumably her grandmother, chuckled, “1948. Do I need to take you to the hospital?” The girl probably thought Bea was out of her mind.
Bea scrambled to her feet, wiping the dirt off the dress she realized she was wearing. “No! Um, can I use your phone?” She knew she wouldn’t actually be able to call anyone. Her parents wouldn’t be born for more than 20 years. Still, she needed to know for sure if this girl was her grandmother.
The girl cocked her head to the side, “You mean the telephone?”
Bea’s face went hot. “Yes, that,” she answered, trying to play it off.
The girl eyed Bea carefully and shifted her weight so the bag of groceries didn’t fall. Bea was sure the girl was going to tell her to get lost, after all, what kind of 1940s kid used the word phone? “I suppose, if you tell me your name,” she demanded. A wave of relief washed over her. Apparently, the phrase “don’t talk to strangers” hadn’t been popularized yet.
Bea thought about using a different name but decided against it. “Right. I’m Bea, nice to meet you,” she stretched out her arm to shake the girl’s hand.
“Your name is Bea, like the letter?” the girl asked.
Yeah, this girl was definitely her grandmother, Bea thought. “No, it’s Beatriz, but people call me Bea,” she explained.
The girl nodded her head and finally reached out to shake Bea’s hand. “I’m Helen,” she told her, and Bea’s hand went limp.
Helen noticed, and Bea spoke, trying to cover her surprise. “That’s a great name,” she said weakly.
Helen had a skeptical look on her face, and for a moment, Bea thought she was going to tell her to get lost. “My house is this way,” Helen gestured a few houses down, and Bea followed her down the newly paved sidewalk.
The house was straight out of those old TV shows Bea’s grandmother sometimes watched before she went to bed. The floral wallpaper and wooden furniture looked almost brand new. It looked nothing like the house her grandmother owned in the future. This house, while still clean, had children’s toys littered around and smelled faintly of cigarettes.
“Let me just put this down and then I’ll show you to the telephone,” Helen said when they entered the hallway. She walked towards what Bea assumed was the kitchen, and before she could ask Helen where everyone else was, she heard a very familiar tone of voice.
“Joseph, I told you to clean up this mess before I got back! Get down here and bring your sister,” Helen yelled, and if Bea didn’t believe that this woman was her grandmother, that demand convinced her. In seconds, two little kids came tumbling down the stairs, a boy about five or six came first, followed by a much younger girl, probably around three. They didn’t even bother looking at Bea as they made a beeline for the kitchen. She followed them slowly, trying not to pry even those who were technically her family.
When she reached the kitchen, she saw the two little kids looking down at their feet as Helen stood above them, hands on her hips. “How many times have I told you to put your dishes in the sink after you finish eating?” she asked, the little boy, Joseph, still not looking up. “And you! Your hair is a mess!” Helen said to the girl, her voice softer now. It took Bea a second to realize that these kids were her great aunt and uncle. Her great uncle Joe had died when Bea was a baby from colon cancer, while her great aunt Julia was still alive, living in Florida with her husband.
Helen scooped Julia into her arms as Joseph puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up his mess. As she walked past Bea, she said, “Beatriz, follow me upstairs for a moment.” Bea climbed the stairs after her into the yellow bathroom. Helen placed Julia on the counter and rummaged around the drawer for a hairbrush.
Bea cleared her throat, “Are your parents home?” she wondered, not seeing an adult anywhere.
Helen didn’t look at Bea as she brushed the hair from Julia’s eyes. “My dad works for the city paving the roads, so he won’t be home until later, and my mother,” Helen trailed off as she braided her sister’s hair. Bea didn’t speak as she waited for Helen to finish. “She died last year of the flu.” Helen’s voice was small, and Bea hardly recognized it.
She knew her great-grandmother had died long before she was born, but she had no idea it had happened when Helen was a child. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Bea said, not sure what else to say.
Helen waved her hand as she finished braiding. “It’s alright, we’re alright,” Helen replied, mostly to herself. She took Julia off the counter and sent her on her way.
Bea knew that Helen had an older brother, Michael, she remembered. “So it’s just the three of you?” Bea wanted to take advantage of this odd turn of events. She wanted answers to the questions she was always scared to ask her grandmother.
Helen placed the hairbrush back in the drawer before answering. “I’ve got an older brother, he’s at school,” Helen sat on the closed toilet seat.
It occurred to Bea then that it was probably a weekday. “Why aren’t you in school?” Bea wondered out loud.
Helen shifted uncomfortably on the seat, and Bea realized how invasive she was being. This version of Helen didn’t know her, so why should she tell her anything? “I go when I can. Someone has to watch the kids,” Helen said, as if it were the most common thing in the world.
Bea tried to contain the surprised expression on her face. “Well, what do you do for fun?” she asked, hopefully leaving the conversation on something lighter.
Helen shrugged, picking lint off her dress. “I read a lot, whatever I can get my hands on, I like to write in the margins about what I would do differently and stuff,” Helen smiled to herself. Bea couldn’t help but grin too, as she did the same thing. “Besides, fun isn’t reserved for kids like me. When I’m older, I’ll have loads of fun. I’ll have kids and grandchildren, and I can spend my time with them,” Helen told her.
Bea’s heart ached; no 14-year-old should wait that long to be happy. She pictured her grandmother in the future, widowed in an empty house with a granddaughter who can’t stand her. She tried not to cry. Before she could say anything back, Helen jumped to her feet. “The telephone! Your parents are probably worried sick,” she walked past Bea, grabbing her wrist on the way out so that she could follow her.
For a moment, Bea thought about telling Helen who she was. She thought about begging her to listen so that maybe she could change her fate and end up happier. But Bea had seen enough time travel movies to know it’s not that easy. Instead, she let Helen drag her into a small room with a desk and a rotary phone.
“There it is, take your time. If they’re not home, you’re welcome to stay for lunch,” Helen said, smiling.
Bea felt a swell of adoration for her grandmother at that moment. “Thanks, Helen, you’re a really wonderful person.” Bea’s voice was on the verge of tears.
Helen shook her head, “Not really, I’m just doing what I would hope someone would do for me,” she replied, one hand on the door. Bea had an uncontrollable feeling to tell Helen that she loved her—an urge she never had towards her grandmother before. Helen turned around and closed the door, and before Bea could run after her and tell her, everything went black.
“Beatriz! Beatriz, wake up!” a voice yelled, shaking Bea awake. She opened her eyes and saw her grandmother hovering above her. Instead of the young girl from before, Bea was faced with her present-day grandmother, and a look of worry spread across her face.
“Are you alright, child?” her grandmother asked, both hands on Bea’s cheeks.
Bea nodded and sat up, and everything came rushing back to her. The young girl, her siblings, and the story about waiting to grow up to be happy. That was all true, wasn’t it? At least some version of it was, Bea was sure of it.
“My goodness, Beatriz, you had me worried sick,” her grandmother exclaimed, combing the dust out of Bea’s hair affectionately.
For the first time in her life, Bea realized that her grandmother wasn’t cold or mean—she was just waiting. Waiting for her time to be happy. Waiting for someone to take care of her for a change. That’s why she always welcomed Bea to stay with her, why she left old books on the nightstand, and made Bea watch her make dinner. These were the ways she showed her love.
They might not be ideal or normal by any standards, but they’re what her grandmother knew. For the first time in Bea’s life, she was going to stop fighting it. Helen was giving her the same look the younger version of her gave right before she blacked out, and all Bea could do was hug her tightly.
“What on earth is this for?” her grandmother asked, hugging her back just as tight.
“I love you,” Bea finally said, and she decided she was going to say it much more often.
