Invisible Read online

  It’s the last gift I will ever receive from Grandma Rose and it comforts me to know it’ll last a lifetime. I smile. “Thanks Gran,” I say to the air around me. “You will always be a part of my life. I will never forget you and I’ll always love you.”

  I text Charlie and tell her about Grandma Rose and my tattoo. She’d already heard I’d fainted after first period and figured it must have been because of something bad. Apparently, I was the talk of the school for the entire afternoon.

  Even though I knew she’d be trying to reach me, I’d needed to be out of touch for a while and had turned off my phone. Worrying Charlie was not what I’d intended, and thankfully, she understood. She offers to come over, but I tell her it’s probably best if she doesn’t since I don’t know when my family will be home. Charlie would be uncomfortable in such a highly emotional atmosphere, so sparing her the agony is the least I can do.

  I make a cup of tea and this simple act makes tears bloom in my eyes. Will every task, no matter how small, remind me of Grandma Rose for the rest of my life? Will the pain of her loss follow me ’til the day I die?

  I curl up on the couch and turn on the TV as a distraction. If only I could turn off my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see her, my beautiful grandmother, lying in that hospital bed, so tiny and pale. The inevitable advice will be that I should be grateful she lived a long life. She went quickly, without much suffering, they’ll say, but that’s such bullshit. None of that matters. It wouldn’t matter if she were a hundred and eighty; I’d miss her because she took with her my sense of safety in this world. Now, all I feel is fear and anxiety at the fragility of life. I miss her so much my heart actually aches.

  The low rumble of the garage door opening alerts me to the fact my family is home. A moment later, the door from the garage to the house opens, and soft voices in conversation spill into the room.

  “Lola?” Mom calls.

  “In here.”

  She runs to me and holds out her arms. I bend to her embrace and allow myself to be mothered.

  “Oh, honey, are you okay? Daddy told me what happened.”

  Eva walks past with Dad carrying bags into the kitchen. Tears glisten in her usually emotionless eyes.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where were you?” she asks, breaking our embrace.

  “I had something to do. Are you okay?”

  Mom nods unconvincingly. “We were at the funeral home… making arrangements.”

  My stomach tightens and bile threatens to rise. I turn away and start for the kitchen.

  “Lola.” Mom stops me in my tracks. “The wake is tomorrow and the funeral the day after. She wanted to be cremated.”

  My blood drains to my feet. The idea of Gran being put into the cold, hard ground is bad enough, but the thought of her being burned is just too much. “Thanks for that little tidbit, Mom. I’m not going. I can’t, I won’t see Gran in a coffin.” My lips compress into an unyielding line as I watch my mother’s expression turn from sad to hurt. “And how could you let Grandma Rose be burned? It’s barbaric.”

  I leave her and walk into the kitchen where Eva and Dad have spread out Italian take-out on the table.

  Eva holds out a plate for me.

  “No thanks. Not hungry.”

  She gives it to Mom who’s followed me in. Mom takes it and plunks it down roughly on the counter where its clank grabs our attention. With the kitchen suddenly quiet, she seizes my wrist and turns me roughly to face her. “Don’t you…”

  My scream stops her. I yank my arm away, my shriek trails into a moan and I cradle my throbbing left wrist against my chest.

  Mom jumps. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself when you fainted?” She moves in closer for a look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  I have an audience of three as Mom gently takes my left hand and pushes up my sleeve.

  “It’s okay. I’m fine,” I reply. I’d been an ass and I know it. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

  Dad and Eva look bewildered, having missed the little exchange in the living room, but instead of delving into that minefield, Dad points to my gauze-wrapped wrist and says, “You did hurt yourself. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  I take a deep trembling breath and hold my head high. “I’m not hurt. I got a tattoo this afternoon.”

  “What?” Dad almost screams.

  Eva smiles. “Lemme see.”

  “You didn’t ask our permission,” Mom chimes in. “You’re too young for a tattoo.”

  “Don’t be hypocrites,” I say with narrowed eyes. “You and Dad are covered in ink. Even Eva has one.”

  “Two,” she corrects.

  “Two,” I repeat.

  My eyes rove from tattoo to tattoo as I eye my mother. There’s the flower at the base of her neck, her name in Japanese characters on her own left wrist and the horseshoe on her right ankle, put there for good luck for when she goes to the casino or bingo. And there are more undercover. I’m frequently treated to the huge multi-colored butterfly at the top of her ass crack when she sits in her low-cut jeans; that one’s the most cringe-worthy.

  “Heidi, she’s right. We don’t have a leg to stand on here,” Dad says, a sheepish grin on his face. “Look at us for Christ’s sake. We’re her role models. It was bound to happen sooner or later and I suppose she needed something to help her through her grief.” He pushes a sleeve up. The familiar colorful sleeve of tats greets me. Despite my bottomless well of embarrassment at dear ole Dad’s multitude of tattoos, Dad just wouldn’t be Dad without them. And I suppose they make Mom who she is too.

  Mom sighs and relents. “Okay, we’re all under a lot of stress here.” She clears her throat and looks as if she’s steeling herself for the unveiling. “Let’s see it.”

  Gingerly, I unwrap the gauze, and as I unroll each layer my heart quickens. I hold out my new body art for all to see.

  “A rose,” Mom whispers. “It’s beautiful.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dinner is peaceful and even kinda fun. Mom and Dad tell Eva and me the stories behind some of their tattoos. I’d heard a few before, but my interest has blossomed now because I finally feel a part of the in-crowd, a part of my family and all it took was one tiny tattoo. I wonder if Grandma Rose, in all her wisdom, suspected this might happen and I can’t help but smile at the thought.

  “This one here,” Dad says rolling up his pant leg and pointing to a black and white dog on the back of his calf. “This is the first dog I ever owned. She was a Boston Terrier and her name was Lila.”

  “Lila?” I say. “That’s pretty close to my name.”

  Dad cocks a brow and eyes Mom. “Should we tell her?”

  “Why not?” Mom answers with a giggle.

  “Well, we named you after the dog,” Dad says with a grin and a husky chuckle.

  “I didn’t really want to,” Mom adds quickly, “so we came up with a compromise and changed the ‘i’ to an ‘o’. Besides, Lola’s a cool, sexy name.”

  Yeah, and one that doesn’t fit me, I’m tempted to say. I look more like a Jane or an Anne, or some other non-descript blend into the background kind of name.

  Eva howls with laughter and bits of chewed food escape before she can clamp a hand over her mouth.

  I don’t know how to take this bit of news – kinda-sorta named after a dog. Could I really expect anything else from my weirdo parents? Mom and Dad have always marched to the beat of an insane drummer.

  “How did Eva get her name?” I ask, hoping for a story more embarrassing than mine.

  This brings another conspiratorial look from my parents. Eva sits in rapt attention and I wonder why we’ve never heard these stories before.

  “We really had no idea what to call her,” says Mom.

  “So we came up with three names and put them in a hat,” Dad continues.

  “I guess you knew you were having a girl then,” I ask.

  “No, actually we only had boy n
ames picked because a psychic told us we were going to have a son. We didn’t name Eva until she was three days old,” Mom explains, “that’s why we did the hat thing. We weren’t prepared for a girl and had to come up with something fast. Anyway, the three names we decided on were Minerva, after the Roman goddess, Artemis who was a Greek goddess and of course Eva.”

  “Why Eva?” I ask. “It doesn’t go with those other names.”

  Dad throws his hands in the air. “We just liked it.”

  “Anyway,” Mom continues, “Minerva was the first pick and we actually put it on the birth certificate, but Grandma Rose was fuming mad. She gave us royal hell, saying the poor child would be made fun of her entire life if we gave her that name, so we changed it to Eva.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” says Eva, clearly not amused.

  A smile slowly unfurls across my face. The story didn’t disappoint. “What’s so bad about Minerva?” I can barely keep a straight face. “We could have called you Minnie. Or if they named you Artemis, Artie would have been cute.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Eva says with a sneer. I file away this little tidbit to break out as needed at a later date. Being named Minerva, even if it was for a couple of days, is far worse than being named after a dog.

  After dinner, we move into the living room and talk about Grandma Rose and the special memories we have of her.

  “Gran was my best friend,” I say, immediately hating the lame sound of the words as they leave my mouth. She was so much more than that, and there’s no way to adequately convey what she meant to me. Words just can’t cut it.

  Mom smiles, but it’s the expression under the expression that tells me I’ve hurt her. I suppose I said what she’d always suspected. Now she knows I love Gran more than her. Even though regret creeps through me, there’s no taking my words back.

  She looks away and clears her throat. “Hey, why don’t we go upstairs and pick out some pictures from different times in Gran’s life,” Mom suggests. “I was going to do it later. I figured I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.”

  Mom’s already neatly swept her hurt feelings under the rug. Might as well carry on as if nothing’s wrong. Mom, Eva and me head upstairs to the spare room to go through pictures. I’m surprised Mom has so many photo albums as well as boxes full of pictures.

  “Gran gave them to me a couple of months ago.” Mom pats one of the old flower-print boxes. “Almost as if she knew something was going to happen.”

  “Well, she was old,” Eva says.

  I give her a quick slap on the arm.

  “Ouch!” She clamps a hand over the red spot I left and steps away.

  Mom ignores our bickering and continues, “The funeral home will need them first thing in the morning to make a memory montage. The photos are scanned and then shown on television screens placed throughout the room during the wake.”

  I pull out a few of Gran and me. In one she’s holding me when I was a baby. I know it’s me ’cause it’s written in faded ink on the back of the picture in Gran’s neat script.

  “You know, she was the first person to hold you when you were born,” Mom says. “Even before your Dad or me.” She shakes her head and gives a little laugh. “Gran got right in there and took you out of the nurse’s arms. I remember what she said like it was yesterday.”

  “What’d she say?” I ask.

  “She said you were just a peanut of a thing.” Mom looks into my eyes. “You only weighed five pounds ten ounces when you were born. You were the tiniest little thing.”

  “I’m certainly not tiny now.”

  Mom holds the photo to her heart and sits on the futon. “You’re not so big, Lola. Yeah, you’re tall, but what’s wrong with that? It’s nice to be tall.”

  She’s just being kind, just saying what a mother’s supposed to say. I sit beside her and take another look at the photo in her hands. “I never felt like I fit in. It’s like I don’t belong in this family. You guys are so different from me. And you can’t deny that I’m fat.” I grab a handful of belly blubber and jiggle it.

  Mom sighs and turns to face me. “You’re a beautiful, smart, kind girl. Stop putting yourself down. Do you think Grandma Rose would like to hear you talk about yourself like that?”

  Mom’s never said anything like this to me before. Maybe it’s because I’ve never told her how I feel. I can be withdrawn and usually keep my feelings to myself. Reluctantly, I admit that maybe it’s me who doesn’t try hard enough to be a part of this family.

  “Be honest, Mom, she could stand to lose some weight.” Eva smirks.

  The truth of my sister’s words instantly slams shut the tiny crack I’d allowed to open around my heart.

  “Asshole,” I mutter angrily as I get to my feet.

  “What? It’s true,” she protests with a wicked smile.

  I hip check her into the wall and stomp from the room. Behind me I hear Mom helping Eva to her feet and yelling at her at the same time.

  Then again, maybe I don’t want to be a part of this family.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By the time I climb into bed, I’m filled not only with grief over Grandma Rose, but hatred for my sister. Shutting off my brain is impossible and I toss and turn for hours. I imagine doing all kinds of mean things to Eva like flushing her cellphone, destroying her make-up suitcase, or stomping her head in. The only person who was ever able to free me from my rage is gone. Grandma Rose was the one I could talk to about anything and that included my evil sister. She could talk me down off the ledge every time and was always able to slip in something better for me to think about, before I even realized what happened.

  The suffocating darkness of my room and the lonely quiet of the house drive me from my bed. My pain is monumental and my need to be near Gran is gargantuan.

  After dressing, I grab my journal and stuff it into my satchel. I leave a note on the kitchen table, letting Mom and Dad know I’ve gone for a walk. The door squeaks, freezing me to the spot. I listen for a moment and, when I realize I haven’t disturbed anyone, I sneak out into the early morning darkness.

  The sun is not yet up and the cool air chills me to the bone. My loneliness is a solid, black thing, coiled around my throat like a boa constrictor. I tug at my collar to keep the panic from choking me. I run, trying to outpace my anxiety, but the banging of my heart feels too much like the panic I’m running from. I slow my pace, forcing long deep breaths and trudge on to fulfill a compulsion I cannot ignore.

  Briefly, I think of Mom and hope when she gets my note she can understand and forgive me for once again not being there for her. My pain has driven me to such selfishness.

  As I slip the key in the door to Gran’s apartment, it’s impossible to believe she won’t be on the other side waiting for me with tea and burned cookies, and another crazy masterpiece on her easel. My heart shatters at the thought of never again hearing her voice, or her laughter or her words of wisdom. Of never looking into her eyes or feeling her touch, never ever again, as long as I live.

  The apartment is black as pitch and eerily silent. I flick on the lights. Nothing has been touched. It feels as if she’s on an errand and will soon burst through the door with her usual exuberance. I crumple to the floor at the entrance of the sunroom and cry. Soul shredding sobs make my shoulders heave. I cry and cry until I have no tears left. I am empty.

  “Gran, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I love you so much and I miss you. I want you to know you were the best grandmother ever and you’ve given me so many wonderful memories. I was blessed to have you in my life and I will keep you in my heart forever.”

  Does she hear me? I guess I’ll never know. But I remember a story she’d told me not so long ago. It came out of the blue and now I wonder if Gran did have some kind of premonition of her impending death, or maybe it’s just natural for eighty-year-olds to always be thinking of their mortality.

  Gran explained that she and I are connected by an invisible cord. Though we can’t see or feel
it, it’s there and can never be severed. It’s the connection of love and she said that when she leaves the planet, the connection will still be there. We’ll always be attached because of the strength of the love we have for each other. Although I never liked to hear her talk about death, I loved that story. It doesn’t seem farfetched to me. I know for a fact that just because something can’t be seen, it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

  Finally, I pull myself to my feet and walk slowly around the tiny room. Canvases of all shapes and sizes are stacked one against the other, leaning on every wall. I flip through and find John Travolta and Katy Perry. I pull them free and select a couple others to take home with me.

  Then I sit in my usual corner of the couch and pull the journal from my satchel.

  “Gran, I hope you don’t mind that I’m telling our secret,” I say aloud. “It’s a better story than the one I was writing and besides, no one but us and a couple of my friends will ever know it’s true anyway.”

  I put pen to paper and write, ignoring the persistent ringing of my cellphone and the little beeps that tell me I’ve got a text message. The whole world can wait because nothing’s more important than the story I’m telling. The words pour from me as if Gran is there beside me, whispering them in my ear.

  Hours fly by like minutes and I continue until my fingers are cramped and my hand aches, and the rumble in my stomach cannot be ignored. I stop briefly to make a cup of tea and a peanut butter sandwich, and then I begin again.

  By the time I close my journal, it’s just past one in the afternoon. Unbelievably, I’ve written twenty-seven pages. I’ve never written so much in one day that I can actually be proud of. With a deep sense of contentment and accomplishment, I swing my feet onto the couch and snuggle against the soft cushions, letting my sleep-heavy lids fall. My breathing deepens and I drift into sleep.