Liesel Schmidt - Life Without You

I knew my face registered the shock I was feeling, but I could only hope she was too preoccupied with her cell phone to see it.

“Um, yes,” I stammered, trying to recover quickly—and gracefully. “Yes, ma’am, I’m on Facebook.”

“Well, then, you can friend me on Facebook,” she replied, sounding gleeful. “I’m on Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest, too!” she added. “I like to keep up with things, you know how it is.”

Of course I did. Didn’t everybody?

I blinked once. Twice.

Who was this woman?

She slid a glance at me. “Well don’t look so shocked, honey.” She laughed again. “I may be in my eighties, but I’m far from kicking any buckets!”

“Clearly!” I said, feeling the blush rise in my cheeks.

Annabelle winked, quick as a flash. “I have a brand new pair of leopard-print Louboutins, and I have every intention of wearing them at my ninetieth birthday party,” she said hotly. “My George would have loved them.”

Something about Annabelle MacMillan told me that when she had her mind set to something, nothing would stop her.

I left the store a few minutes later, purchases in hand and now in possession of Annabelle’s number. I could hardly wait to hear more from this captivating little creature. And to find out more about George, their scandalous romance—and just how well she knew my family.

Chapter Nine

I couldn’t very well let on that I’d bought a pair of very flashy panties to my grandfather; so before I left the store, I’d made sure that they were safely tucked away in the bottom of the bag, hidden by the folds of fuchsia tissue paper and just under the bottle of lotion.

I tracked him down, sitting on a bench outside the sporting goods store.

I surveyed him from a distance, once again feeling amazed at how much he’d visibly aged since the last time I’d seen him. At eighty-four, he was still undeniably robust and extremely energetic, but the emotional strain of the past months had obviously taken their toll. Though he might never say it, all of those days at the hospital had stripped a few layers. And missing Grammie was harder on him than he would admit.

“Are you ready?” he asked when I finally sidled up next to him.

I nodded, wordlessly holding up the small striped pink bag. “All set.”

“Anywhere else you’d like to go while we’re here?”

I shook my head, feeling fully satisfied.

“Okay…how about some food. Are you hungry?”

I hadn’t noticed it before, but now, at the mention of hunger, my stomach suddenly seemed to awaken. Breakfast had been a long time ago. I stole a quick glance at my watch to see exactly what time it was.

“I wouldn’t argue at some lunch,” I replied tentatively, surprised to see that it was nearly two o’clock, yet afraid that whatever suggestion he made might be far out of my comfort zone. My bucket list flashed into my head: Eat Somewhere Unsafe . Was I prepared to tackle that challenge right then? I knew that this was going to be one of my biggest hurdles—one that I would have to face time and time again until Safe and Unsafe no longer existed. Was I ever really going to be ready? The truth was, I’d been allowing myself to back down, to retreat on the justification that I just wasn’t ready to be brave, that it seemed easier not to jump. Not to fight. Not to eat things that people ate everyday without thought or worry. I’d gotten so restricted by the boundaries my mind had created that a once healthy awareness of nutrition had become a dangerous disorder; and if I was ever going to get better, I was going to have to make changes, even when I didn’t feel ready .

“There’s a Chick-fil-A not far from here, if you’d like to go there,” he offered.

I felt a quick twinge of panic as I nodded in agreement. “Sure. I haven’t had their food in a long time.”

He smiled. “Most of the time, I just go there for a breakfast biscuit; but when I go there for lunch, I like their Chick-fil-A sandwich best. And those waffle fries are pretty tasty, too.” Grandpa rubbed his solid stomach as he spoke.

He may have been frequenting the fast food restaurants much more than he had while my grandmother was alive, but it certainly wasn’t adding to his waistline.

“It’s a plan, then,” I said, not really knowing what else to say and trying to feel a sense of empowerment at even this tiny test of the boundaries I’d set on my comfort level. “Have anything else in mind for the day, or should we just go on home after that?”

“I’ve been meaning to mow the grass, so I think we’ll just head back to the house, if you’re okay with that,” he answered.

“You’ve got it. And don’t worry, Grandpa,” I said, hoping the sincerity was evident in my voice as I spoke, “I don’t need to be entertained—that’s not why I came. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I expect you to make major schedule changes or anything like that.” I reached out for his hand, grasping his big, gnarled fingers in mine. “I’m just glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Grandpa said back, squeezing my hand as we walked, now hand-in-hand along the sidewalk back to the truck.

“I meant to tell you, I met somebody interesting in the lingerie store earlier,” I said a little while later when we’d settled into a booth at the restaurant with our food. “Someone you know, too—Annabelle MacMillan?” I popped the lid off of my bowl of chicken noodle soup, hoping I wouldn’t splash any of the hot liquid anywhere. It had been a compromise, I knew; but when I’d gotten in line to order, I’d parroted the words that screamed through my head, opting for something that felt safe to eat in this restaurant that had somehow become unsafe.

“She seems like a very nice lady. Said she used to come to Grammie for cakes anytime she threw a party,” I continued, trying to distract my own mind from the food—safe, unsafe, or otherwise.

Grandpa paused, his hand poised in mid-dip with waffle fry still immersed in his ketchup. Obviously, the name registered.

He nodded, then resumed his fry-to-mouth mission.

I watched him closely, trying to gauge his oddly noncommittal reaction. Clearly, the man had no intention of elaborating.

“Sounded like she’d known Grammie for a long time, too,” I continued, keeping a gimlet eye on his face. “She said her mama’d hired Grannie Rose to do her housekeeping for awhile.” I dipped a plastic spoon into my soup, hoping I sounded far more casual than I felt. Obviously, the suspicions I’d formed earlier weren’t totally off base. There was more to the story, and I was dying to hear it.

More nodding. “She did,” he said finally, having stalled long enough to finished chewing and swallowing his waffle fry. “Didn’t do it for very long, though.” He reached for his sandwich.

“I didn’t know Grannie Rose was ever anyone’s housekeeper,” I said, wondering if I was going to get much out of him. “I didn’t think she worked.”

“She didn’t, except for that little while when your Grammie was a teenager, right before we met.” He poked a thick finger in between his sandwich bun and the fried chicken breast, lifting it just enough to satisfy himself that no one had gypped him of his two pickles.

I raised an eyebrow. The man was not one for details. “Why did she work, then? Did she have to?”

“She was saving money for a wedding,” he said, seconds before he sank his teeth into his sandwich.

That certainly made sense, especially in those days. Lord knew my great-grandparents weren’t made of money. With ten mouths to feed, every penny was pinched within an inch of its life, so the idea of having enough to spare to pay for a wedding was a bit ludicrous.