All Along | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: All Along | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ann Stocking
03/19/15
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I’d lived with my grandmother since I was a baby. Laughing, she always said she’d found me on the back porch, like a puling, stray kitten. She’d given me warmed milk and said she’d decided to keep me -- just on trial, mind -- to see if I’d grow into something useful.

Every night, while watching Perry Mason or Ed Sullivan on our battered TV, I massaged Grandma’s feet. She worked at McIntyre’s lunch counter, so her feet got plenty sore fetching coffee and cheese sandwiches for customers all day.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Lorna. My feet feel soft as a baby’s behind.” They didn’t; they were callused and hard, like old leather, no matter how much Jergens I used. That’s how Grandma was, though, gobbling up my burned macaroni and cheese like it was something fancy or wearing her favourite blouse to work, even though I’d scorched the collar.

She never talked about my daddy or mama. When I asked questions, the furrow on her forehead got deep, like her head was hurting. “Go read your book, Lorna.”

We lived in a trailer park. My “room” was a cubbyhole in the hallway, next to the bathroom. I’d decorated it with Judy Garland pictures I’d pulled from magazines. I adored Judy. I wanted to be Judy, with her curls and ruffled dresses. I watched The Wizard of Oz faithfully every January on TV, enthralled with every song, every brick in that marvelous road.

On Saturdays, when Grandma worked half-days, I did my homework at McIntyre’s, at the end of the counter. Grandma’d give me lunch, usually a plate of fries, before we left, and we’d stop by the market for groceries on the way home.

Our life was good, just Grandma and me, so it pains me to remember what I did when I was twelve years old. It started with Pamela, a popular classmate, though I can’t blame her entirely. I was flattered by her attention more than I should have been and envious of her rainbow-hued sweater sets.

One day, Pamela wore lipstick to school, wiping her mouth clean in the cloakroom before class. I was intrigued that she was “allowed” to wear lipstick, for my grandmother was strict about such things.

“You’ll not be tarted up.”

I didn’t know what “tarted up” meant, but Pamela sneered when I told her. “She doesn’t want you to have fun. My mother loves me, so I can do whatever I please.”

“My grandma loves me,” I declared vehemently.

Pamela looked sideways at me. “Maybe.” Suddenly, I felt ashamed of my McIntyre’s dress, canvas runners, and twin braids that had seemed so smart that morning. So Judy.

“Prove it,” Pamela challenged, and she pedaled away on her bicycle, her patent leather shoes gleaming.

The malignant seed had been planted. Did Grandma truly love me? I wasn’t allowed to go out after supper, go to movies, or drink soda pop. Didn’t she always say I was just a stray she’d had to take in? The indictments against Grandma grew into a miserably long list, until I truly believed she didn’t, couldn’t possibly, love me, filling me with shame and recklessness. I made a plan. I’d show Pamela. I’d show Grandma.

The next Saturday, while sitting at the lunch counter, I told Grandma I needed to use the restroom. Ducking into the cosmetics department, I found exactly what I wanted. Ruby Charm. Lipstick the colour of overripe cherries. I went into the restroom.

Drawing my lips taut, I applied it like Judy must do to get her perfect Cupid’s bow lips. Suddenly, in the mirror, was another set of lips, pinched and reproving. The lips moved. “Stay here.”

I flushed. The exact colour of Ruby Charm.

The saleslady returned, dragging Grandma and yammering on about my transgression. Grandma shooed her away and looked at me, sorrow in her tired eyes.

“You won’t let me wear lipstick.” I blurted out with a rush of hiccoughs. “You never let me do anything. You don’t love me.”

“Oh, Lorna, you’ve plenty of years ahead for girly stuff. And rules are for a reason. Come here, sugar.”

I was crying pretty good by then. Grandma pulled me close. “Never doubt my love for you,” she whispered.

I sobbed harder as I listened to her heart beating beneath the purply-red smears on her greasy apron. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up, and we’ll find us a cream soda. It’ll be on me.”

Love, all along.

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