“Nothing to tell, but work sucks and the band is doing awesome.”
“Then tell me about that,” she orders.
I tell her about the rise in deaths this month because of flu season, and how hard it’s been to find CNAs that will stick around when the company doesn’t pay them well enough. Then I tell her about the shows, the new merch, and the recording session.
She slides from the bed. “Let me just get my pocketbook. I need one of those shirts.”
“Grandma, you don’t have to—”
“Oh, but I do,” she says. “I didn’t start making the good money until your mama was grown, and I’ll spend it how I like.” She’d ended up getting promoted a step at a time from server to regional director for a major steakhouse chain before she retired a couple of years ago. Some of her poor people habits die hard, like driving a car much less nice than she can afford. But in other ways, she’ll spare no expense, especially when it comes to me. She paid for my sorority dues because she said it would give me a professional network for life.
She pulls out a twenty and puts it on my nightstand. “Size medium next time I see you. And purple if you’ve got it.”
We don’t, but I’ll make sure Grandma gets a purple one anyway.
“Now tell me about this recording. I got a CD player. Where can I get a CD?”
So then I spend the next ten minutes setting up Soundrack on her phone and making sure she can find our songs.
“Did you do the one that goes like—” and then she breaks into a perfect rendition of the chorus to “Wannabe Man.”
I clap when she’s done. “Grandma, that’s so good. I love that you know the words.”
“I love everything you do, pumpkin. And why are you surprised it was good? You know you got those pipes from me.”
“It’s true. Thank you for them.” I’d grown up singing with her, which is why I did, do, and always will have a love for classic country.
“You can thank me with a concert. Get your guitar, girl. Let’s sing.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I pull my acoustic guitar from the closet and climb back on the bed, settling across from her cross-legged.
“Let’s do some real punk rock,” she says, and hums the opening bars to Dolly Parton’s “Jolene,” a song we’ve sung together more times than I can count. I was so proud when I finally learned the fast fingering well enough to play it when I was fourteen. Grandma grabs my garbage can and dumps it into the bathroom garbage, then settles on my bed, the small garbage can turned over and ready for drumming.
We sink into our easy harmony, and when the song comes to an end far too soon, we smile at each other, and the familiarity of making music together is another hug. The door flies open, and Ruby, Charlie, and Ava stand there, clapping.
Grandma grins at them. “Get out of here with that. I already gave you candy. You don’t gotta suck up.”
“Can I also be adopted?” Charlie asks, something like awe in his eyes.
“Are you as foolish as most men?” Grandma asks.
“Probably,” he says at the same time Ava and Ruby say, “No.”
Grandma gives him an assessing look. “Well, they’d know better than you would. Their word is good enough. You’re adopted.”
He makes prayer hands. “Thank you.”
“Bye, Grandma Letty,” Ruby says, tugging on Charlie’s shirt to get him downstairs.
My phone vibrates with a text, and I look down to check it while Grandma is wishing them good night. It’s Josh. I open it, curious. Well, and because I have zero power to resist a text from him.
You sound amazing. Balcony concert?
I glance toward the sliding doors again. He must be outside. It’s the only way he could have heard us through my closed doors. I want to go check, but Grandma will have too many questions. Besides, she deserves all my attention right now.
“What’s so dang interesting about your sliding door?” Grandma asks.
Oops. Guess I wasn’t giving her as much attention as I thought.
