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Lessons Learned
Annis Shannon
My first memory of you was with your of grey hair wrapped tight, clipped with the worn down feather barrette that you possessed for practically my entire childhood. You had a cigarette in your mouth, which hung low, like the rest of your slipping face. We had guests, and you were chopping vegetables. I was in my red velveteen dress -- the one with the checkered bow on the left side. Remember how much you liked it? I climbed on to the kitchen counter, it was newly done, and I remember how clean the solid eggshell countertops looked. I wanted to spook you. I guess I succeeded because I felt a sharp sting from my neck down to my collarbone. You had dropped the knife onto the ground and before I knew it you were reaching for the ground coffee that belonged in the kanaka, and not in my wound, but you pressed it in to stop the bleeding. When the countertops became the same color as my dress, we called an ambulance. I spent that night in the hospital, and you spent the rest of your life apologizing for it.
We were never allowed in your room. It wasn’t your rule as much as it was Baba’s. Whenever I was home alone I would sneak in, never getting caught, sans the one time when I took Ramsey in with me. He was lying on your bed kicking the wall when his foot made contact with a window. I guess we should have probably told you your bed was covered in shards of glass, but at the time, it was irrelevant. It was the only tidy room in the house; it was the only room that never changed, even though we moved every single year. The top drawer was always comprised of Kit Kat bars and Little Debbie Cream Pies. We made a habit of eating them and then leaving the wrappers on your night stand, so that you would end up thinking you ate them and just forgot. When our plot was foiled Baba suggested that you replace all the familiar candy with foreign ones that he was certain we wouldn’t like. He was right and we never went into the drawer again, except when we felt hopeful that the Kit Kats and Cream Pies would return. They didn’t.
Baba thought you had Hepatitis C. You had a separate bathroom and we were never allowed to share a bed with you. Whenever he worked late or fell asleep early, that morning I would be found sprawled out on your bed, and you would be sitting on the chair to the left of the television because you complained that I kicked in my sleep. I think the line I heard most my entire life was: “If you sleep in your grandmother’s bed one more time, I swear to god we will wake up and find you dead.” Whenever he would tell me the story about how Giddo died of Hepatitis and that his liver hardened to stone I would heed his warnings, afraid you would infect me. Sometimes you would reply, “If that was the case I would be dead and finally at peace!” and his threats would mean nothing. I tried to keep your bedding when you were gone. I missed your scent, but after months without you, the smell had dissipated and all that was left were unwashed sheets that made my skin itch.
One time I got up the courage to ask you why Baba tried so hard to keep us from talking to you.
“It’s because I beat your son of a bitch grandfather half to death when your father was younger, and then took your father and left.” Your tone was austere, but I continued to pry.
“Why did you do that?”
“He was always hitting me and when he started on your father I just couldn’t deal. I would never let anyone touch my kids. I didn’t like him hitting me either, but I didn’t have the confidence to stop him. Regardless of what anyone tells you, it’s okay to leave.”
“Do you tell Baba that?”
“It’s not good to talk about the mistakes the dead have made when there are people living who continue to make the same mistakes, or worse.”
I never asked you about it again, but the discussion resonated with me, and years later when I entered my first relationship, I put my shame of breaking off an engagement aside, and left him. He didn’t hit me, but I could see it in his eyes that he would have if he were alone. He sometimes settled on a forceful push that brought him enough satisfaction to forget his anger.
Baba didn’t like you smoking in the house, so you made it a habit of pulling a kitchen chair outside to the front door and smoking. The neighbors never seemed to care even though you always wore your night gown out. Your fat, veiny thighs hung over the chairs edge. I remember that day because the roses has just begun to bloom, and Baba’s voice was ringing in the kitchen about how much of a gardener he had become, while Mama was complaining about wanting to remove the hip for jam. He didn’t allow it. You pulled out your cigarettes from the crevice between your breasts.
With the cigarette between your fingers you motioned towards the door. Instinctively, I took the cigarette and ran into the kitchen to light it. When I returned your face was painted with impatience and disdain.
“Why’d it take you so long? You know Siti Arooz gets home in an hour.”
“No An’na. It kept going out so I had to keep relighting it”
“It went out because it took you too long to get back!”
She snickered, and took hold of my right arm, firmly.
“Here – Let me teach you how to take the first drag so you don’t ruin my cigs.”
She placed the cigarettes between my fingers and brought it up to my mouth.
“Now let go all the air in your lungs, okay? And then breathe through your mouth with the cigarette inside.”
I coughed.
“Don’t hold it in too long” she said. I gagged as I exhaled; my taste buds overwhelmed with Carlton Lights. “You know I was your age when I started smoking”
“Why did you?”
“Lena. She was my best friend. She started and I followed”
“Why?”
“Because I let her talk me into it”
“Are you still friends?”
“I think she’s dead, but our friendship ended long before that.”
“Why?”
“Because most of the time your friends don’t do what’s best for you.”
Things started to go bad when you left whole tomatoes in the soup, and tried to dye my hair with your oxygen mask. I remember the first time the craziness hit you; we had to take you to the hospital. You were convinced Aunt Nag was trying to kill you, and between the bouts of insanity you would scream out “Fatima help me!” I would earnestly reply my name is Annis. Jordan was the one who spent the most time with you. Your weakness made me uncomfortable.
I should have spent more time with you.
