Alone at 90 Foot (9 page)

I like Nana Jean. I mean, I love her, I guess. It's just that she's too critical to be fun. She's critical of herself and critical of other people. She can't stand the color her new neighbors painted their fence. Or the fact that the newspaper boy doesn't leave the paper right smack in front of her door. She thinks Aunt Andrea should buy less expensive clothes. And that my cousin, Devon, should get braces for his teeth. She tells me how to handle my emotions. She tries to psychoanalyze me. She tells me she knows how I'm feeling when she's so far off it's like a pathetic joke.

But despite all this, I know she's not mean. It's just that, for her, these things would make the world right. The only problem is, there's no end to them.

Mom explained it to me like this. “Your Nana is a good person,” she said. “Perhaps she takes life a little too seriously, but deep down, she just wants us all to be happy. She wants us to be our best.”

Mom was able to listen patiently to Nana. Nod sympathetically at her complaints. And for that reason, Nana Jean loved my mom. Dad could not have done better in choosing a wife.

Because of this, I know Jennifer doesn't stand much of a chance tonight. It won't be anything she does at Nana Jean's. Or anything she says. It's just
that, well, I know Nana could never imagine Dad with anyone else. Not exactly shocking. It's hard for me to imagine Dad with anyone else. And I know for a long time, for Dad, it was hard to imagine Dad with anyone else.

Jenn looks wicked in the clothes I picked out for her. She comes to the house early, so I can do her hair. For the first half of the drive to Port Coquitlam, she asks questions about Nana. What are her interests? What was she like as a mom? Does she like chocolate? Does she like the kind of chocolates she bought her? And for the remaining part of the drive, she asks questions about herself. Do I look alright? What if she asks me to cook something? What if I inadvertently offend her? What if she doesn't like me at all?

I find it kind of funny. For a person in charge of an entire bank, meeting Nana has Jenn majorly unhinged.

“Relax!” Dad and I both tell her.

“She'll like you,” says Dad. “And if she doesn't, well, that's her problem.”

Jenn gives Dad this look. I know he's joking, but Jenn doesn't know him so well. He smiles at her. “I'm kidding. Of course, she'll like you. How could she not?”

Nana meets us at the front door. She gives me this stiff hug. But not before she tells me my hair is
too long, my skirt is too short and I shouldn't wear such provocative nail polish.

Provocative? I look at my nails. I thought it was a cool shade of orange.

“Mom, I'd like you to meet Jennifer Reid,” says Dad.

One thing about Nana is, she has this way of making you real uncomfortable, just by being silent. She does this to Jenn right then. She stands back a little, looks at Jenn, folds her arms. “So, this is Jennifer,” is all she says.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Collins.” Jenn holds out her hand.

Nana takes it as Dad pushes past her into the house. “What's the problem with the garage door?” he asks.

We follow him in. Dad asks the question because he helps Nana with little things that go wrong around the house. Anything she can't fix. He doesn't mind. Grandpa was very good at woodwork and taught Dad how to work with tools. Dad tells lots of stories about the things they built in the shop.

“The pull has come loose and the screw broke when I tried to get it out.”

“I'll take a look at it after we eat.”

Nana has made all my favorites for dinner. Simple stuff that probably wouldn't bowl you over. But because Dad's cooking skills are limited to a frying
pan and the barbecue, I never get them at home. Like roast chicken with stuffing and gravy. And apple crisp with a blob of whipped cream on the top.

Nana asks me her usual questions, between the “getting to know you” conversation with Jenn. You know the questions.

The “How's school?” question always comes first. Which, of course, I answer with, “Fine.” Then comes “What have you been up to lately?” to which I say, “Not much.” Then there is some meaningless comment, and following that, since Nana happens to know about it, a question about how I did on some test. “You must be into final exams soon. How did you do on that math test?”

“Fine,” I repeat.

At this point Dad always feels the need to speak up. This time he says, “Pam got a terrific mark on an English essay. Ninety-six percent.”

Ahh. Now Nana has something to talk about. “Oh my, how clever! She's always done well in school,” she tells Jenn. “She gets it from her mom.”

“What about me?” demands Dad.

“Oh, and you too, dear, of course.” She turns back to me. “Tell us, Pam, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Aak! There it is again. Well, okay, Nana, since you asked. I'm going to be a shiftless drifter when I grow up. With no fixed address. If I said it, wouldn't
that just blow her right out of her chair? But instead I say, “Don't know yet. I'm undecided. Maybe a writer of some type. Or — an artist.” Then I get this brain attack. “Or maybe a banker like Jenn.” I smile smugly. I'm not sure why I say it or why I smile like that. It's just one of those things you come out with. You know, just to shake things up.

“Oh,” Jenn giggles, looking a little surprised. But Dad gives me his sternest “watch it” look. Nana Jean does not like my answer at all.

“I see,” she says, before doing that silent thing for a bit. “Like Jennifer.”

After dinner Jenn and I help clear the table. Dad goes out to the garage. That's when things really start to fall apart. Jenn excuses herself to go to the washroom. While she is out of the room, Nana wants me to sit down at the kitchen table with her. She takes my hand in hers.

“She seems like a nice lady.”

“Jenn? Oh, yeah. She says the odd weird thing once in a while, but inside, I think she's alright.”

Nana listens. Then she looks at me in this curious way. “Of course,” she begins, “whatever happens, you must never forget your mother.”

Forget her? Forget my mother? Well, this is a tad inappropriate and out of the blue. I've been feeling alright up until now. Why would Nana say such a thing? Why would she want to wreck my evening
just like that? And before I know it, the tears begin to squeeze right out.

Nana kind of panics. “Oh, now, Pam.” She tugs a Kleenex from the box on the window sill. “Look what I've gone and done.” She pats my eyes. “All I meant, dear, is, well, that comment you made about being a banker ...”

What is it with adults that they take everything you say so literally? Can't we be allowed just one little joke? Anyway, I'm not listening. What makes her think I could ever, possibly, forget my mom? Doesn't she know how my whole world is ruined? The tears keep on flowing. My nose is running. Nana Jean searches for another box of Kleenex.

“I shouldn't have said anything,” she fusses. “There now, Pammy,” she pushes a wad of Kleenex into my face, “blow, dear. Come on. Blow hard.”

I take the Kleenex and blow my nose. Hard. I'm having a full-blown breakdown again. I don't know what it is. It's been a whole year and I just can't get past hearing a reference to my mom without all the emotions jumbled inside gushing right out. I'm sniveling and honking. And I'm in this messy state when Jenn comes walking back in the room.

“Oh,” I think I hear her say. She kind of hesitates, like she doesn't know whether she should stay or go.

Nana Jean has her arm around me. “Oh, Jennifer.
Please, sit. It's all my fault. Poor Pammy. I just mentioned her mother. I should know better than that.”

Yes, you should, I want to scream. I've told you before, I can handle my feelings myself. So just — just butt out.

“I'm always butting in where it's not my business.” With her free hand, Nana tugs a Kleenex for herself. “I only want the best for my family,” she sniffles. “Oh,” she moans, a weak little cry like I've never heard before, “I love my family. I really do. I don't have anyone else. Not since Richard passed away.” She takes her arm away from me and blows her own nose. Hard.

I'm surprised to see tears run down the wrinkles in Nana Jean's face. The face that only ever shows one emotion — none. Now I'm crying for her, as well as myself.

Jennifer looks all concerned. “Richard? That was your husband?” She takes Nana Jean's hand in her own.

Nana Jean is so sad, she can only nod. “He must have been a wonderful man for you to miss him so much.”

“Oh, he was,” Nana kind of wails. “So full of life. He was always joking. He really made me laugh.”

Jenn pats her hand. “Tell me something about him. I'd like to know Ken's dad.”

Bingo! I don't know if Jenn planned it, but she
sure hit on the right question. It sets Nana Jean on a roll. She talks for half an hour straight about Grandpa. About how they met. About how they furnished their apartment with cardboard boxes when they were first married, while she worked as a secretary and Grandpa took engineering at school. About the places they lived: Saudi Arabia, Germany, Japan, as his job took him around the world. About Dad and Uncle Sean being born, then later, Aunt Andrea and Uncle Nick. About their happy times and sick times, the good times and the bad. About how Grandpa found something good in every situation. And oh, how he loved his kids.

“Would you like to see a picture of Richard holding Ken just after he was born?”

“Yes, of course I would.”

Nana opens the silver locket she wears around her neck. It holds a picture of Grandpa, looking very much like Dad does now, cuddling Dad as a baby on his lap. Grandpa has, like, this magnificent smile on his face.

“Oh,” Jenn coos, holding it closer so she can get a better look. “This is so sweet.” I don't know if it's too much dust in the air, or too much emotion, but Jenn dabs at her eye.

“Isn't it?” Nana dabs at her own eye again. “I have a whole album of them together if you'd like to see it.”

“Oh, yes, I sure would.”

Jennifer sniffs a little until Nana returns. Together they look at the album. The one I've seen many times before. Pictures of Grandpa and Dad together, fishing and working in the shop. Pictures of Dad as he was growing up. The album is titled, “Richard's Little Gaffer.”

Nana sees Jenn looking at the title. “With the first one,” she explains, “you get a little silly. They usually get the biggest fuss.”

Jenn is obviously touched by it. She is majorly touched by it. Personally, I think it's the word gaffer that gets her all choked up. It's one of those words she would relate to. I mean, more than anyone else.

“Little gaffer,” she splutters. “Isn't that just sooo sweet?”

I pass her the box of Kleenex. She passes it to Nana Jean. Nana passes it back to me. And although each one of us is doing it for our own reasons, we continue to snurf and snivel together. This is the state we are in when Dad returns from the garage. At first, he doesn't say anything. He just gets this horrified look.

“What on earth is going on in here?!”

“It's alright, dear,” Nana begins to explain. “We were just having a little chat.” Sniff. Sniff. Dad looks past her, at Jennifer with her eyes all red

“A chat!” He looks at me. “Pamela, would you like to tell me what's going on in here?”

I would, Dad. But it's one of these women-knowing-women things that you really wouldn't get. “Like Nana said. We've been having a little chat.”

He is not happy with my answer. He expected me to tell him more. He looks back at Jenn. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes.” She blows her nose in this resounding sort of way. “Perfectly fine. Your mother is a wonderful lady. You're very lucky, Ken.”

Seriously baffled, Dad rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He goes over to the sink to wash the grease off his hands.

We drive home in total silence. I know Dad is thinking the entire evening was a mega-bust. But I know better. I know Jenn got through to Nana Jean in a special kind of way. She let her talk about the person she loved. She let her remember him out loud. She listened while Nana told her how special Grandpa was. And how happy they'd been together. Jenn made Nana Jean smile.

June 2nd

Mr. Overhand, our social studies teacher, is really peeved. There is a stink bomb smoldering in the garbage can and he's demanding to know who's responsible. He's standing at the front of the classroom with his arms folded. His face is all shiny red and he's scanning us with these snarly black eyes.

“It's immature! That's what it is. This kind of trick,” he stabs his finger toward the garbage can, “it's elementary school stuff! Now I want to know which one of you pin-headed adolescents refuses to grow
up!” His eyes pass menacingly over each one of us.

No one moves. No one says a thing. Not surprising. Who would admit to being the pin-headed adolescent who refuses to grow up? Especially to an overexcited social studies teacher who's ready to rip someone apart?

“I see,” Mr. Overhand says, slowly nodding his head. “I see. Alright, if that's the way it's going to be, you are ALL going to sit here until one of you cracks. And I don't care if that takes all night!”

Mr. Overhand returns to his desk. He sits down and pours another cup of coffee from his mega-thermos. He takes a book out of his drawer and leans back in his chair, like he's prepared to do just that. Camp here, in this foul-smelling room, all night, until one of us pin-heads cracks.

This brings major groans from all of us. It's ten after three and the thought of dragging this school day out one minute longer than necessary really kind of sucks. Darla Miller is getting her hair permed at four o'clock. Joanne is going to a movie with Tony. John has a guitar lesson. Mike Ortega is supposed to help his dad in his shop. Danielle is meeting Matt Leighton at 3:30.