50 Years Waiting
By Anna Scott Graham
Copyright 2013 Anna Scott Graham
Cover design by Cat Duyck
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents, and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For Suzy Stewart Dubot, who gently led me into the world of smaller tales.
~~~~~
Andrea was seventy-two years old that morning. She stared in the bathroom mirror, tucking short gray hair behind her ears, wondering if she looked any older, or was the aged glass part of the problem. Dim slivers were reflected like layers of her life. She smiled, unable to do anything else. It was her birthday after all.
Later over coffee, her daughters asked what she wanted for dinner. She requested spaghetti with plenty of parmesan, and Samantha, her eldest, smiled. “You have that every night Mom.”
“Well, make it special. Throw in a meatball.”
Catherine sighed. “For God’s sake, can’t we take you out or something?”
“No, too much trouble. Save it for Mother’s Day.”
Both women, in their late forties, grimaced, as Andrea never went out for that annual holiday either. As the coffee pot was emptied, they agreed that Sam would bring the pasta and sauce, Cat some bread, salad, and dessert. “I am baking you a cake and you are gonna have a slice,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Andrea’s tone was that of Cat’s twenty-four-year-old daughter Laurel. They would all show up with cards, but no presents. Andrea hadn’t wanted any gifts since Carl died.
But flowers didn’t count. As the sisters left, Sam agreed to pick up roses, while Cat would grab gladiolas. Their girls would buy lesser bouquets, and their sons might remember a card. They would plan for an early dinner, so their mother wouldn’t fall asleep in the middle of it.
Andrea spent her afternoon speaking to her grandchildren; she had been a relatively young mother, so had Sam and Cat. No great-grandchildren yet, for which Andrea rejoiced. Laurel had threatened, but Andrea wasn’t sure if Cat knew her daughter had been pregnant at seventeen. Carl had been dead for three years then and Andrea had plenty of time to listen to a teenager’s woes. An abortion was certainly dramatic, and Andrea had known similar heartache.
Until then Laurel hadn’t, and that experience had straightened her out. Cat always wondered why her youngest had gone from being a slacker to earning solid B’s, then attending nursing school. Laurel worked at the local hospital, but told her grandmother that she wasn’t sure she could perform CPR on her. Andrea said she would try to die when Laurel wasn’t on shift.
She wasn’t that close to all her grandchildren, but didn’t need to be. Justin, Laurel’s older brother, was so much like his late grandfather, it was sometimes hard for Andrea to look at him. She had loved Carl with as much of her heart as what remained, but it was more than many men received. Carl still dwelled deeply in his widow, but he wasn’t the only one.
As Justin looked like Carl, Laurel took after her grandmother, and why they were such spitting images, no one knew. It just happened sometimes, the way all of Sam’s kids had Carl’s crooked teeth, or how both of Cat’s had Andrea’s formerly red tresses. That was the only way to set Justin apart from Carl; he’d had nearly black hair, while Justin was a deep strawberry blonde. Every time Andrea laid eyes on that grandson, she thought of her late husband. Then she considered another man.
She never told anyone, it would be poor form. Besides, seventy-two-year-olds didn’t go around talking about their past lovers. Andrea spoke about her children and grandchildren, and how glad she was that there weren’t any great-grandchildren yet. She never said that around Laurel, only to Justin, Carissa, Megan, and Anthony. All laughed, in full agreement.
That evening Andrea received kisses and hugs as old vases were retrieved from cupboards, then filled with a variety of blooms. Justin surprised her with a bright spray of carnations, and an enclosed card: Happy Birthday Grandma, Love Juss. Andrea had called him Juss when he was little, and Laurel still referred to him that way. Dressed in scrubs, she teased her brother; he would always be Juss this and Juss that. Everyone smiled, and it wrenched an old woman’s heart, seeing her spouse’s face on this vivid young man.
Andrea was the matriarch, but didn’t always feel her age. Seventy-two was a legal way to count the years, but she recalled feeling much younger, watching descendants who weren’t little anymore. Justin was twenty-six, and Sam’s girls weren’t far behind. Anthony was nineteen, Sam’s baby, but at nineteen Andrea had just met…
“Grandma, Grandma?”
“What?”
Megan smiled, those bent bottom teeth hidden by her lower lip. “You ready for cake yet?”
Andrea looked at the clock, six thirty. Then she gazed to her plate, a few bites left. Eager faces stared at her; they had places to be, things to do. “Yeah sure, let’s cut that sucker.”
All giggled, even the boys, then Justin set a gentle kiss on top of her head. “Who’s the young’un Grandma?”
She smiled as he pulled out his phone. Andrea’s cell didn’t even take pictures. She had a digital camera somewhere, but her offspring and their broods chronicled the evening, telling her to check Facebook when she woke. All the photographic evidence would be waiting in the morning.
She suspected some was there already, as Carissa and Anthony tapped screens, then snapped more pictures. Andrea was caught blowing out candles, cutting the cake, eating part of a slice. She preferred ice cream; Carl had always bought extra, which they would enjoy for another week. Cat had picked up just one container. By the evening’s end, it would be gone.
Cake would remain, but Andrea would insist it go home with someone. As they put away leftovers, she told them to take whatever they liked, watching as the empty ice cream box went into the trash.
By seven, the kitchen was clean, kids were itchy. Andrea wasn’t tired, only because she had napped that afternoon. She had no intentions of being drowsy for her party, even if it was just spaghetti. She loved Italian food, Carl had hated it. Now she ate pizzas and pastas all the time, but not ice cream. That was for special occasions, and she always wanted a little bit more.
Cat sat down with a cup of decaf. “So Mom, what’re you doing tomorrow?”
“Nothing special. Why?”
“You wanna go with me to the vet? I gotta take Ginger for her shots.”
Was this what being in her seventies meant, traipsing around with Cat, or some silly errand that Sam might mention. “No, I’m going fishing tomorrow. But thanks all the same.”
Everyone stared at her. “You’re gonna do what?” Justin asked.
“Go fishing. Just ’cause I’m seventy-two doesn’t mean I’m bored stiff.”
She said it politely, but hoped the point was made. Her daughters had started bringing up these ridiculous outings last year, and while most of the grandchildren forgot she was alive except on holidays, Andrea had no intentions of being obliging. She had her own life, even if it meant watching TV or scant gardening on nice days.
“Okay, well, I was just asking.”
“I know and I appreciate it. But I’m gonna dig up some worms and…”
The grandchildren laughed. Andrea could deadpan; Carl had taught her after years of dishing it out with a big spoon. It was one of the things she missed about him, something Anthony might not remember. But Justin and Laurel did, both blinking away tears.
Justin wiped his eyes, then kissed his grandmother. “All right, just don’t dig all the way to China.” He kissed his mother, waving goodbye to his sister and cousins. “See you all later.”
“Drive safe Juss,” Andrea said.
&nb
sp; He stepped out as Laurel flipped on the porch light. Then she peered through the tattered screen door. “Justin?” she called, following him. “Juss?”
Anthony ran outside as voices flew, Justin and Laurel’s against another young man, or maybe not quite as young as them. “Who the hell is it?” Sam stood, walking to the door.
“See anything?” Cat asked as her daughters joined the rest.
Andrea’s hearing wasn’t perfect, but sharp sounds carried; Justin was angry, Laurel confused, Anthony curious. Megan and Carissa were quiet, which allowed an outsider’s words to be discerned, or a stranger to those grandchildren. Blinking, then pinching herself, Andrea headed for the screen door, disbelieving what her ears took as truth. Thom Sugerman stood on her front lawn.
Slowly Andrea approached the group, her daughters beside her. Thom was dressed as she last saw him; she had never forgotten that day, even after fifty years.
Jeans, a white