Summer

A Story by B Peterson

Summer Vacation

I jumped off the bus and flung open the side door. This door lead directly into the kitchen. I tossed my backpack off my shoulder and grabbed a Nutty Buddy bar from the pantry. As I opened the door to rush back outside, my mom shouted my name. “Yea?” I asked. She told me to pack a bag because we were going to go to the beach for summer vacation.

She had been telling me that she was planning a trip, but that it was a surprise. My mom was full of secrets. I knew that “going to the beach” meant more than “going to the beach.” We were leaving Arkansas to drive to Florida. My grandma and great grandma lived in Florida. I had a picture of my grandma holding me when I was baby. In the photo, she had golden white hair and tan skin. Her blue eyes beamed through the smile lines that framed them. I had a mental picture of my grandma, however I had no actual memories of her or my great grandmother. I was nervous about meeting them. I had no contact with my father at the time and minimal conversations with my grandma and great grandma. I talked to them on the phone on holidays and received phones calls from them on my birthday. I wondered if they would like me? I wondered if I would like them? I tried to picture where they lived?

My grandmother had reluctantly placed my great grandmother in a nursing home at that time. Looking back, I think my grandma was sad and lonely. The two of them were inseparable. They only had one another. My great grandma had lived with my grandma for 17 years. The role of mother and daughter had reversed. My grandma became my great grandmother’s primary caregiver. She made her meals, bathed her, and helped her to bed at night. My grandma’s health was slowly depleting just as her mother’s. I think my mom wanted me to visit them in fear that I may not have another opportunity. She never stated that. My mom is a master of masking her emotions. Over the years, my intuition has evolved and I’ve gained a better sense of cracking her internal codes.

“We’ll be there when we get there,” my mom responded annoyed at my repeated questioning of “How much longer?” I had read every book packed in the car and found what seemed like a license plate from every state. We drove through endless fields of farmland rarely stopping. The smell of cow pastures ingrained in my nostrils. As she was driving, I woke up from my body being jolted into my luggage in the back seat. My mom whipped her car around in someone’s driveway on the back roads of Alabama. “Have you ever had boiled peanuts?” she excitedly asked. We stopped at a farmer’s house with a wooden sign painted white that was nailed to a tree at the end of his driveway. There was writing in black paint on the sign that resembled my third grade handwriting,

“For Sale

Boiled peanuts - $3 reg/cajun

Eggs - $2 dozen”

We were greeted by Goliath in overalls. He must’ve been 6’3 and 300 pounds. “I don’t know about this, mom…” I said softly so that he wouldn’t hear me. But, my mom was already in pursuit of boiled peanuts. She bought a bowl for the both of us. To this day, I have never had boiled peanuts that have tasted as good.

The next day, we arrived in Florida. “We’re here,” my mom said as she pulled up to a gas station. The charm of the 1950s gas station was overshadowed by the paint chipping off of the exterior and cracked glass on the window. When I entered the gas station, I could smell pine-sol. The gas station had seen better days, but my grandma tried her best to keep it clean. I was greeted with an excited gasp. My grandma stretched her arms open ready for me to dive in. I leaned in and felt comforted by her embrace. She stepped back. Then, she held her hands on the sides of my cheeks and turned my head left and right as if to inspect me. She kept shaking her head in disbelief. “You look just like your father.” My mom was average height, long dark hair, and tan skin. I was tall, blonde hair, and fair skin covered in freckles just like my father. After she absorbed our similarities, she smiled and told me to grab any snack from the store. I picked a Root Beer and a red licorice the length of a jump rope. My grandmother gathered her things as another employee prepared to start her shift.

We drove to the nursing home to pick up my great grandmother for the weekend. My mom parked the car in the loading zone. “Wait here,” my grandma told us, “I’ll just be a minute.” After thirty minutes, my grandma exited the sliding glass doors. She was pushing my great grandma in a wheelchair in front of her. My grandma was rolling her eyes and shaking her head. My great grandma’s thin arms were waving in the air as if she were conducted an orchestra. Her eyebrows were creased together and her mouth was moving. I opened the door to greet her and heard, “These a******s can’t dictate what I do.” “C'mon.” “Hell, who cares?!” I helped my great grandma into the backseat as my grandma put the wheelchair in the trunk. My grandma sat in the front seat next to my mom. “Well, I guess she started a race track in the courtyard of the nursing home,” my grandma told my mom. My great grandma had to have a meeting with the director of the nursing home. She was scolded for encouraging tenants to place bets on electric wheelchair races in the courtyard. As my grandma relayed the message to my mom in the front seat, my great grandma elbowed me to look in her direction. When I did, she gave me a wink and a subtle smirk. She placed her hand on top of mine. Her hand was cold. I could see the blue veins mapping out intersecting roads under the surface of her skin. She was frail, but her tongue was sharp. She had a charismatic wit that allured me.

That night, I unpacked my suitcase in the spare bedroom. On the dresser was a picture of my grandma holding my dad when he was a baby. She had a cross necklace draped over the corner of the frame. Next to it, was my most recent school photo. The walls were decorated with art created by my grandma and my dad. My mom always told me that I got my creative side from him but, I had never seen their artwork. I carefully studied each piece as if I were at the MoMA. As I was in the bedroom, I heard the pop of a can opening. I walked into the dining room where my mom, grandma, and great grandma were drinking 40 ounces and playing poker. I tried to hide my shocked expression. I had rarely seen my mom drink. My mom’s side of the family is very private. You don’t hear cursing or beer cans cracking open. But, I felt at home with my grandma and great grandma. I discovered a side of me that I had never known and didn’t get an opportunity to explore further.