Her Room
This is the first of my assignments for my Creative Writing class. I don’t know what grade I’ll get but I’d love some feedback from my friends. Tell me what you think!
Wiley hated the hospital, but more than that, she hated that Gran had to be here. It had been five hours since the call, and Gran was still unconscious. Whether it was another five hours, or five days, didn’t matter, Wiley would stay until she awoke.
The chairs were incredibly uncomfortable and she had tried every one. What she really wanted was to curl up on the hospital bed with her grandmother, not so much to comfort Gran, but to comfort herself. Instead she had to content herself with watching and worrying and occasionally stroking her dry, papery arm. Nurses bustled in and out, always looking slightly perturbed and, once, a doctor came by and said a lot of words at Wiley, none of which she could remember.
She managed to doze off once, the room was so still and the time was passing so slowly, but was jolted awake by the whir of the automatic blood pressure cuff. As she unfolded herself from the tight, protective posture she found herself in, she noticed that a foot had fallen asleep as well. Standing and stamping the offending foot, she looked over at Gran, hoping for some kind of change, any kind of change.
This wrinkled, dried-up husk of person didn’t even look like the grandmother she knew. Gran had always been proud of her “girlish figure” but always embarrassed by her round face and chubby cheeks. Knowing how she felt about it, Wiley never said it aloud, but she loved those apple cheeks.
So many thin, older women start to look sunken and hollow and older than their years, but not Gran. Her plump round face belied her age. When she smiled and laughed, those cheeks would rise and redden and her eyes would crinkle, the only wrinkles that usually lined her face. Today, all that joy and life seemed gone and at long last, she looked every one of her 85 years. Those cheeks, no longer plump, were wrinkled and dark.
She looks so old, Wiley thought, “She doesn’t even look like herself.”
She must’ve said this last out loud. A nurse had entered, quietly, and said, “I know, honey, it’s the stroke.”
The nurse then, calmly and efficiently, performed all the little tasks that mystified Wiley but were crucial to her grandmother’s care. The nurse smiled and patted her hand when she thanked her for that care.
She sat back in the least uncomfortable of the chairs, fully expecting to nod off once again, but at that moment Gran stirred just a little. Wiley wasn’t sure she had really seen the slight movement of an arm, perhaps it was just wishful thinking causing her to see good signs mixed in with so many bad ones. But, no, Gran’s arm really did move. She was raising her hand! The movements were shaky but real.
An eye fluttered open and looked around the sterile room. A kind of panic, or maybe just confusion, dawned in that darting eye until it stopped on Wiley’s face. She had moved to the head of the bed, finally smiling to see Gran awake.
“Hi,” she said with a small, relieved smile. “You’re in the hospital. The doctor said you had a stroke.”
Gran seemed to process that for a moment, before trying to speak. “My house….”, she managed to say.
“No, Gran, you’re in the hospital.”
“Shhh, go…my…house.” Some life returned to the one open eye while she said this, but the light looked different to Wiley, harsher almost desperate.
“Bedroom closet…box…pictures. Call Dad…Sam.” The words that she forced into existence seemed to drain her of energy and she once again sank into sleep.
Wiley called her dad and her husband as Gran had told her to do and told them to come to the hospital. She only said that she needed to get some things for Gran and would be back soon.
It didn’t take long to drive to Gran’s house. Wiley unlocked the door and entered. Gran had only been in the hospital a day but the house felt…bereft, as if the house itself knew its mistress was gone, and might not come back. She made her way through the living room and past the kitchen, to the back of the house and the two bedrooms. Wiley had only been in Gran’s bedroom a handful of times, it was old-fashioned and musty, not very interesting for a child. She kept the rest of the house so lively and warm and welcoming that Wiley had never even wanted to explore the bedroom. Now she had no choice.
She looked around, searching for even a hint of her grandmother’s personality and found tiny pieces here and there. The wallpaper had never been changed because it was “perfectly good”; a child of the Depression, Gran made do and never wasted anything serviceable just because it was out of style. The background was dark beige but may have started life lighter or brighter, and had tiny clusters of rose-colored flowers. There were odd, square lighter patches of color and one corner near the ceiling was starting to curl.
The dresser was buffed to a shine; there hadn’t been time for it to gather any dust. On top was a large doily and Gran’s jewelry box and sitting next to it, a glass dish holding her (and Wiley’s) favorite peppermints. She popped one of the powdery, chalky candies in her mouth and looked in the mirror. The glass was silvered and wavy with age, but Wiley liked it. She could just barely see all of her face when she sat down on the bed.
It was not a comfortable bed, at least not for Wiley who had been thoroughly spoiled by her own big, soft bed. She didn’t have to see it, but she knew there was a piece of plywood between the mattress and box spring. Gran liked a firm bed; she said it kept her back straight. She lay back and ran her hand over the bedspread. It was white and nubby; Gran called it ”candle wicking”. It didn’t seem like something comfortable for sleeping, but there was a warm, soft blanket folded carefully at the foot of the bed. Wiley sat up and picked up the end of the blanket, she held it to her cheek and breathed in its scent. It was Gran’s scent, a mixture of rosewater and Ivory soap.
She couldn’t put it off any longer, it was time to look for the box. It was an older house, so the closet was small. The door had the same kind of faceted glass doorknob that was on the bedroom door. Gran’s favorite housecoat hung on a hook on the inside of the closet door. The dresses and skirts and blouses (no pants) were hung carefully on the bar. The shoes with the sensible heels were kept in their original boxes, some yellowing with age. The pocketbooks and handbags were lined up neatly on the shelf above the bar. Wiley took Gran’s white, patent leather, Summer purse off the shelf; the clasp made a pleasing “snap” when she opened it. She closed it again and slid it back to its place on the shelf.
All the boxes in the closet seemed to contain only shoes and Wiley was about to give up, when she spotted a metal box tucked away in the corner, underneath the longer dresses and skirts. Just as she reached for it, she heard the front door open. Before she even had time to get scared, her father called out, “It’s me!” and walked back to the bedroom.
He said he didn’t want her to be alone right now. Whatever that means, Wiley thought. “Did you find the box?” he asked.
“Wait, what, how did you….” she was confused.
“I stopped by the hospital,” he said, “and came over in case you had any questions.”
“Well, I’ll let you know,” she answered.
Still confused, she pulled the box from the closet and stood up. She set it on the dresser and opened it. It was filled with pictures. There were pictures of Gran and her grandfather, many of her father and even more of a girl she vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. There were family group pictures, many with this strange girl in them. Wiley looked at her father and raised an eyebrow but kept digging. Under the photographs she found a bundle of letters addressed to a Dolores Jones and next to the bundle, a very official-looking document. She unfolded the document and read it; it was a birth certificate. Her birth certificate.
She scanned it but stopped when she got to entry for mother’s maiden name. It said “Dolores Jones”, not “Barbara Finney” which was her own mother’s maiden name. She read further, the line for father did not read “Farren Jones”, in fact it didn’t read anything, it was blank.
Even more confused, she sat down on the edge of the bed. “Dad,” she looked at him, at Farren, at the man who should’ve been listed on her birth certificate, “what is this?”
He told her the family secret, after all, it was her secret, too. Her mother, Farren’s baby sister, was an “unfortunate girl”. She was unfortunate enough to find herself pregnant out of wedlock at a time when that just wasn’t done. Gran couldn’t send her away in shame, so Dolores had stayed home to have the baby.
“But something went wrong,” he said, his voice catching on the words, “our father wouldn’t let her go to the hospital during the day. He wanted her to wait until night, so nobody would see her. By the time it was dark, it was too late. The doctor got here in time to save you, but it was too late to save Dolores, your mother. She held you as long as she could and then asked me to take care of you. So Barbara and I adopted you, and I loved you as much as any father could. At first, because you were my sister’s baby and then because you were your own, lovable self.”
“Daddy!” It was all she could say and she hugged him.
They went back to the hospital together and told Gran that Wiley knew the Truth. Wiley’s husband Sam came in and they told him the Truth, too. They were all gathered there, letting the Truth seep into their minds and souls, when Gran took her last breath. Her final wishes had been honored and she died, finally at peace now that the Truth was known.
