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things, all so familiar and imbued with her personal odor of Johnson's baby powder and
Campho-Phenique.
So my friend Arlene helped me pack everything up to take to the disaster relief agency. There'd been
tornadoes in northern Arkansas the past few days, and surely some person who had lost everything could
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use all the clothes. Gran had been smaller and thinner than I, and besides that her tastes were very
different, so I wanted nothing of hers except the jewelry. She'd never worn much, but what she wore was
real and precious to me.
It was amazing what Gran had managed to pack into her room. I didn't even want to think about what
she'd stored in the attic: that would be dealt with later, in the fall, when the attic was bearably cool and I'd
time to think.
I probably threw away more than I should have, but it made me feel efficient and strong to be doing this,
and I did a drastic job of it. Arlene folded and packed, only putting aside papers and photographs, letters
and bills and cancelled checks. My grandmother had never used a credit card in her life and never bought
anything on time, God bless her, which made the winding-up much easier.
Arlene asked about Gran's car. It was five years old and had very little mileage. "Will you sell yours and
keep hers?" she asked. "Yours is newer, but it's small."
"I hadn't thought," I said. And I found I couldn't think of it, that cleaning out the bedroom was the extent
of what I could do that day.
At the end of the afternoon, the bedroom was empty of Gran. Arlene and I turned the mattress and I
remade the bed out of habit. It was an old four-poster in the rice pattern. I had always thought her
bedroom set was beautiful, and it occurred to me that now it was mine. I could move into the bigger
bedroom and have a private bath instead of using the one in the hall.
Suddenly, that was exactly what I wanted to do. The furniture I'd been using in my bedroom had been
moved over here from my parents' house when they'd died, and it was kid's furniture; overly feminine,
sort of reminiscent of Barbies and sleepovers.
Not that I'd ever had many sleepovers, or been to many.
Nope, nope, nope, I wasn't going to fall into that old pit. I was what I was, and I had a life, and I could
enjoy things; the little treats that kept me going.
"I might move in here," I told Arlene as she taped a box shut.
"Isn't that a little soon?" she asked. She flushed red when she realized she'd sounded critical.
"It would be easier to be in here than be across the hall thinking about the room being empty," I said.
Arlene thought that through, crouched beside the cardboard box with the roll of tape in her hand.
"I can see that," she agreed, with a nod of her flaming red head.
We loaded the cardboard boxes into Arlene's car. She had kindly agreed to drop them by the collection
center on her way home, and I gratefully accepted the offer. I didn't want anyone to look at me
knowingly, with pity, when I gave away my grandmother's clothes and shoes and nightgowns.
When Arlene left, I hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she stared at me. That was outside
the bounds our friendship had had up till now. She bent her head to mine and we very gently bumped
foreheads.
"You crazy girl," she said, affection in her voice. "You come see us, now. Lisa's been wanting you to
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baby-sit again."
"You tell her Aunt Sookie said hi to her, and to Coby, too."
"I will." And Arlene sauntered off to her car, her flaming hair puffing in a waving mass above her head,
her full body making her waitress outfit look like one big promise.
All my energy drained away as Arlene's car bumped down the driveway through the trees. I felt a million
years old, alone and lonely. This was the way it was going to be from now on.
I didn't feel hungry, but the clock told me it was time to eat. I went into the kitchen and pulled one of the
many Tupperware containers from the refrigerator. It held turkey and grape salad, and I liked it, but I sat
there at the table just picking at it with a fork. I gave up, returning it to the icebox and going to the
bathroom for a much-needed shower. The corners of closets are always dusty, and even a housekeeper
as good as my grandmother had been had not been able to defeat that dust.
The shower felt wonderful. The hot water seemed to steam out some of my misery, and I shampooed
my hair and scrubbed every inch of skin, shaving my legs and armpits. After I climbed out, I plucked my
eyebrows and put on skin lotion and deodorant and a spray to untangle my hair and anything else I could
lay my hands on. With my hair trailing down my back in a cascade of wet snarls, I pulled on my
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