Bubbles

A Story by Eve

I remember being afraid of my grandmother as a kid. I hardly knew her or anything about her. Possibly the only thing I knew about her was her first name; Eileen. She lived in a small, one bedroom apartment in Lorain, Ohio with her husband, my daddy’s step father, who was constantly puffing on a cigar at the kitchen table. I don’t ever remember food being made in the kitchen or food being placed on the table. I’m not sure if Eileen knew how to cook. On the shelves where one would store pots and pans sat Eileen’s vast doll collection. As a kid, I recall being very jealous of all her dolls. They were all kept so nicely and all wore such elegant dresses. I was never allowed to touch them.

For the first twelve years of my life, I was dragged down to Lorain every Christmas and required to spend at least one day in that dreary apartment. Most of that time I spent with my sister at the christmas tree counting the ornaments and picking out our favorites while our daddy talked with his mother about people we didn’t know, and places we had never been. Eventually, every year, after we had been in the apartment for several hours, Eileen would acknowledge my sister and I and call us over to her side.

Cautiously, we would sit down next to her on the couch. I remember my daddy erging us to come closer; trying to show us that his mother wouldn’t bite. Eileen would ask about school and tease us about our “secret boyfriends”. My sister and I would laugh uncomfortably and look to our mother, hoping she would give us a reason to leave. She never gave an excuse, but I could see that she was equally uncomfortable in that apartment.

One year, when I was in the first grade, Eileen called us to her side again. “So, what’s new with you girls?” she asked with almost no hint of expression.

I politely smiled at her and said “nothing”.

My sister, who had always the talkative one of the two of us, replied, “We got a fish!”

Eileen laughed. That may have been the first time I had seen her smile at something one of us had said. “When your daddy was your age, he had a fish.”

“Really?” squealed my sister in an excited voice. This was also the first time we had ever heard anything about our daddy when he was a kid.

“Yup. He and your aunt had a pet goldfish. What was his name, Scott?” My dad shrugged as he chuckled. “It was something kinda like Goldie. Or maybe it was Fishy. No, that wasn’t it……” The discussion of the fish’s name carried on for much longer than needed. Finally, my dad told her that the fish was called Bubbles. I hardly believed that. I assumed my dad must have just made that up to encourage Eileen to finish the story.

“Anyways, when that fish finally died, your aunt wouldn’t shut up until you daddy agreed to help her bury that damn thing. He stole one of my shoe boxes and put the damn fish inside of it. Then, he took it outside and he buried it in my garden. They had a little funeral and everything! They sang some church songs and made a gravestone and everything! I watched them from the window, laughing my a*s off.”

“Mom!” exclaimed our dad. He gave her a warning look to stop swearing in front of us.

“Oh relax,” scolded Eileen, “as if you haven’t said worse around them.” My daddy just shook his head. He hadn’t.

The story about the fish was the first of many stories about my daddy that Eileen began to tell. I like to think that she told so many of them because she saw how happy they made me and my sister, but I think that it’s more likely she just enjoyed embarrassing me dad. Each story she told involved my dad doing something silly, dumb, or feminine all for the cause of his little sister. My dad was always embarrassed about these stories and hated when they were told again every year, but I grew to love and look forward to them. They gave me not only a new perspective of my dad, but of my little sister as well. If my dad was willing to play dress up and play with dolls, why couldn’t I?

About four years later, Eileen passed away, along with the tradition of the stories. At the funeral, I remember the way my aunt leaned on my dad for support, and how during the service she cried on his shoulder. That’s when I realized how much my dad meant to her. Both of them have other siblings as well. In fact, my aunt and dad live the farthest away from each other than any of their other brothers and sisters, yet I’ve never seen a brother and sister more close than the two of them. This was not a relationship that just happened, but rather a relationship built on a beautiful childhood full of good memories of one another. I wanted this for me and my sister. I wanted to be her roll model. Didn’t she deserve that? From that day forward, I tried to be a better sister. I comforted her when she got in trouble and played pretend with her almost every day. Through all of this, I not only gave my sister a role model, but I received the greatest friend anyone could ever ask for. I assumed that by learning from these stories and bettering my relationship with my sister, I would be making things better for her. I thought that was the role of older siblings. I assumed that the reason my dad and aunt were so close was because she trusted him. What I didn’t know was that by being a good sister, I got an amazing sister in return. It’s not a chore to look after her, but a privilege. I thank God every day that I learned this lesson as early as I did. Had it not been for my grandmother, Eileen, my sister and I might have remained just that; sisters. But because I chose to listen to my grandmother, I now have a friend as well.