Put Grandma in the Spare Room

“But where are we gonna put her?” asks Sylvie, rolling the gold band around her fourth finger. With the stress of the incoming guest, she’d somehow sunk into herself, allowing the ring that hadn’t budged from her finger since the wedding, three years ago, to suddenly come loose. She almost lost it down the sink when she was doing the dishes just the other day. Smashed a plate instead. Now she wears rubber gloves.

I reassure her, “We can put her in the spare room. I made it up all nice, it’ll still be nice with her in it.”

“You talk like she’s a sort of decoration. I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Well, you didn’t take note of her before,” I shot back.

I was starting to get annoyed. We had a clear solution long ago. We knew one day the house, our safe haven, would be subjected to her presence. We’d managed to avoid one of her impulsive visits on one of her numerous road-trips. How ironic that the easiest way to outrun the old woman was to keep still?

“It just doesn’t seem right. She’s always been an…energetic soul. The spare room is too plain for her.” Sylvie takes off her ring. Her face pales, matching the fresh coat of paint. We both survey the spare room from the threshold. I glance at my watch. “All the places she’s been… will this be enough for her?”

“We’ll have to go soon.”

“Yes,” Sylvie hums, scanning the corners of the room for anything seeming out of place, or too lively for her. Maybe that’s why I married her. After everything I had to endure when Grandma took me in, moving schools every week because she was too restless to stay in the same city, I needed to be stationary. Sylvie was just what I needed: A slow, formulaic, quiet girl, who wore the same cardigans regardless of the weather, and had weekly meal plans.

No spontaneity, no surprises, all our holidays were planned and scheduled a year in advance. I had been breathing clearly for three years and my blood pressure was back within the normal range.

The expected smell of Sunday roast filled the kitchen when I led her through the kitchen by the hand, silently remarking on how she embodied a slow cooker in ways I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was selfish of me to find perfection in her dullness, seeing how the prospect of the uninvited guest shook her. Maybe I shouldn’t have argued against the ten other possibilities she proposed and researched. Maybe I should have convinced — or even bribed — one of my cousins to undertake the challenge of making up a room worthy of Grandma.

“What about the living room?” Sylvie said as we locked the door behind us. The sun shone warm on our skin, but her arms were still weighed down with heavy cardigan sleeves. “She wouldn’t be in the way.”

“No, we would be in her way,” I chuckled, remembering the flighty way she would dance about the room, crossing it a hundred times, bumping in to me half of those times, when I was just trying to do my maths homework. “The spare room is just fine, love.”

“But what if we have another guest? Won’t it raise questions?”

“No, dear, just get in the car. The crematorium closes at four. Grandma was never one to be kept waiting.”

“I just wish I’d met her before…”

“You wouldn’t have liked her.”

Prompt 9 From JF Danskin’s April prompts!