* * *
Her grandmother lives in LA,or outside of it, south of it, in Irvine. We stop for gas and to clean up, and for a bite to eat. And for Annika to regroup before we go to her gram’s house. But once we’re cleaned up and refueled, there’s nothing for it but to go. So I go.
It’s a tiny ranch-style house in a middling neighborhood. Not great, not awful. Postage stamp lawn needs to be mowed. Driveway is cracked and uneven. Faded blue-gray siding, picture window, some flower beds on either side of the porch with some drooping flowers.
I shut off the engine and sit, watching Annika stare out the window.
“Last time she saw me, I was high off my ass, weighed about thirty pounds less and not in a good way, my hair was tangled and ratted and matted. I had scabs and sores all over my face and arms…” She bites her lip, shakes her head. “She could barely stand to look at me. She closed the door in my face, because she knew she couldn’t help me.”
“You’re not that woman anymore, Annika.”
“Gram closing the door in my face hurt almost as much as Grandpa dying.”
“She won’t close it in your face, now, mama.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” I admit. “I don’t. But it’s obvious you’re clean. And we’re here, so you gotta try.”
Her eyes shimmer, wet again. “I don’t know if I can,” she whispers. “I’m too scared.”
I tug the keys free of the ignition and swing out of the car. Round the hood. Open her door and reach a hand down to her. “Come on, mama. You got this. You and me, okay?”
She closes her eyes, then squeezes them tight, a single tear sliding down, and then she nods. Takes my hand and swings her feet out, plants her cane on the concrete, and stands up. Nods again. Sighs with slumped shoulders, and then squares them, head up, tossing her hair with a little shake of her head.
I notice the curtains across the picture window are parted, where they were closed before. It’s early evening, sun shining golden and bright.
I hold Annika’s free hand as we ascend the curb and make our way up the short walk to the front door. There’s no screen or storm door, just the wooden front door, three diamond-shaped windows in the peeling white paint, descending diagonally left to right.
Annika lifts her fist, hesitates, knuckles an inch from the door—she’s nearly hyperventilating.
“You can do it, mama,” I whisper.
She nods, letting out a shaky breath, and then raps twice on the door.
There’s a pause. Locks unlatching. Another pause. And then the door opens, very slowly, revealing a small old woman with pure white hair cut horizontally at her chin. Annika’s got her eyes—deep, green, kind, warm. She’s hunched, frail, with purple-blue veins popping out of her skin.
“Annika?” Her voice is a low whisper.
“Gram.” Annika’s is barely audible. More of a gulp and a whimper around a stifled sob.
The little old woman peers up at Annika, eyes sharp, piercing, assessing, intelligent. “Is it…is it really you?”
Annika shuffles forward half a step. “It’s really me, Gram.”
Her grandmother reaches out and takes Annika’s hand, looking at her arm. Peering up into her face. Hope is blooming. “You look…well.”
“I’m clean, Gram,” Annika whispers. “I’ve been clean for seven months.”
Another long, piercing, assessing look, scanning from head to toe. “This is the truth?”
Annika nods. “Yes. Seven months, two weeks, and four days.” Annika grabs her grandmother’s hands. “Gram, I…I’m sorry.”
A shake of her old, wrinkled head. “Long, long forgiven, my love.”
Annika chokes, gasps for air. Drops to a knee, her good one pressing into the threshold of the doorway. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Small, veined hands wrap around Annika’s face, pull her closer, face to belly. Pet her hair, soothing. She clucks, whispers, shushes. “All done now, dearest. All over. I’m here, my love. It’s all right now.”
