flashquake Nonfiction

GRANDMA'S DOOR
by Rebecca Marshall-Courtois

The door yawns open when I step in front of it. I plunge into the tepid air. Each tentative step forward reveals another layer of conflicting smells — Lysol, urine, something simmering, Vicks, vomit.

They're seated in rows, some dumped in vinyl chairs, others wheeled next to them. They drool, moan, watch the door and me making my way through it. None of them seem to pay attention to the slideshow-screen-sized television set they face, although the volume must be cranked up to its maximum. The twitching blue light casts shadows on their skin, adds eerie color to their pillow-dented hair. I force a smile and mumble a greeting that no one responds to.

"Second floor, down the hall on your left, second to the right after the lounge area," the lady in baby blue tells me. I know where it is, but I'm stalling.

I take the stairs and my time, but I still find it too soon. 211. It is nothing but an ordinary door. It looks like every other door I've passed on my way here. And I hate the sight of it. I could retrace my steps, return to my car and just drive away. No one but the receptionist would ever know. But how can I think of doing such a thing?

I stand there, idle and yes, afraid. I inspect that door in search of something warm, something welcoming. Grandma would like it to be welcoming. It looks like a wooden door that has been smoothed over with years of painting and repainting, but when I place my hand on it, it is too cold to be made of wood. Against my skin, the steel surface is flawless except for a drip of paint that has been frozen in time.

They could have at least chosen a nicer color. The fluorescent ceiling lamps reflect off it, like a sun trying to push through a January sky. It matches the rest of the hallway, which is painted a mixture of other monotonous shades of blues and greens that look as though they've been mixed in a pot with this same gray. Yellow would be as welcome as a daffodil poking through slush.

Muffled televisions echo from behind the other gray doors. It is mid-afternoon — soap opera prime time. Across the hall, a man snores. His breathing is like the hush of a shoreline at low tide, predictable and sad.

I press my ear against the icy door. Not a whisper. I can easily recall the days when her Norwegian songs drifted down the first floor hallway of that Brooklyn apartment building, accompanied by fragrances of freshly baked crumbkaga. I take a deep, desperate breath, but all I smell in the air is an attic stench of moth-balls and mildew, lurking behind something chemically lemon they must use to clean the floors. Then that prickly smell of vomit and urine sneaks up on me again.

Grandma's baking days ceased five months ago when she moved here. She left behind her kitchen, her two bedroom apartment in a building with a mosaic tiled entranceway, where her name was typed under a polished brass mail box. There, she had a doorbell and a chain lock. Now all she has is a stenciled-in number on a door that allows free access to a room crowded with a few of her mahogany furnishings, draped with doilies and covered with framed color photographs of me as a child, and black and white ones of other children, my mother and uncles. "It's best this way," my mother explained.

Of course, it's only a fifteen minute drive up the parkway to this place. Driving from Westchester to Brooklyn had always been a chore, but one that was rewarded with a cup of her freshly perked coffee, a cookie to dip and Grandma's smile. I come up with far more excuses not to visit her here.

When I finally get the courage up to knock, my fist makes the door tremble but hardly any noise. All I have to do is push it open, but I can't bring myself to just stroll in there like a nurse. A frightened, "yes," tinged with an accent invites me in. I enter and find myself immediately at the foot of her bed where her toes make a lump under the quilt my mother made her for her ninetieth birthday. Some of that rose soap grandmother smell still lingers around her. I inhale it eagerly, and close my eyes to call up a vision of her smiling at me, her wide flushed cheeks, her sturdy little body draped with a flour-strewn apron, and those doughy arms reaching out to pull me in. It is safe there. When I reach the side of her bed, though, I peer down at a face that is much too white and withered to belong to Grandma. She looks breakable beneath the sheets, and I don't know how to go about hugging her without hurting her, but when her lips stretch into a smile, I catch a glimpse of the grandmother I've always come to visit.

"What a nice surprise," she murmurs. "Your mom said you've been so busy. And I can't even offer you a cup of coffee." I remember the heavy plop the percolator made when Mom tossed it into the Hefty bag, and I swallow back my urge to cry.

"I didn't come for coffee, Grandma. I came for you."

I pull her into my arms, where I hope she'll feel safe. I close my eyes and pretend I feel at home.

Copyright 2003 by Rebecca Marshall-Courtois

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