Life Without You

Chapter Seven

It was, in some ways, I supposed, my grandfather’s way of laying claim to a long and bright future ahead, this newly acquired truck in a bold shade of candy-apple red. He had traded in his own truck, an earlier iteration of this one, without all the bells and whistles and info-tech gadgetry that came with the newer models. Ever the die-hard Dodge Ram man, Grandpa had been unwavering in his decision with what make and model he wanted to bring home, no doubt putting the salesmen on the floor at Tidewater Dodge through their paces to earn every single solitary cent of their commission.

What was missing now—leaving a noticeable hole in the old, detached garage—was a minivan. It wasn’t out on errands, traversing some stretch of Hampton between Food Lion or Walmart or Costco. It wasn’t on its way to church.

Or maybe it was.

Wherever it was headed, though, it was never coming back to reclaim its space within the walls of this aluminum-sided garage, such a familiar sight in its dated shade of what was once called avocado green during a heyday of decades long gone by. Someone new had claimed the minivan, moving the mirrors and shifting the seat, erasing her preset buttons on the radio. No key rings dangled a declaration of Mom’s Taxi from its ignition. No box of tissues claimed the space between the front seats and the console.

Instead, there was nothing but emptiness beside this shiny new specimen of steel. Nothing but emptiness and an old tube sock, stuffed and dangling on a string from the ceiling in anticipation of meeting the slight curve of a windshield, guiding it to a safe stop.

I stared at the tube sock, then felt my gaze inextricably drawn to the scarred and stained concrete floor. Ghosts of puddles, faded reminders of the inner workings of so many minivans over so many decades.

It was like the vehicular version of the empty pillow on the empty side of the bed. Stark and lonely. Almost rude in its announcement that something—someone—was missing.

“How do you like my truck?” Grandpa asked, the suddenness of his voice almost jarring.

I blinked, forcing my brain back to the present, to the upcoming outing with my grandfather. I wasn’t going to wallow here, in this loss. Grammie would have stood for none of it.

“It’s some truck,” I said, stretching my lips into a smile. And it certainly was. It was some truck, perfect and shiny and red, such a difference from the steady succession of blue trucks he’d had over the course of my life. Maybe that’s what he had been hoping for. Something different. Some kind of visual reminder that there were still new things to be had, new memories to make, even if he had to do them on his own. His life wasn’t over, any more than mine was. Now it was up to us to decide whether those futures were dull and hopeless or shiny and bright with possibility—like a sweet candy apple just waiting to be bitten into.

“So where do you want to go?” he asked, eyebrows raised in interest.

I looked down at my hands, resting idly in my lap now that we were both encapsulated in the front seats of the truck’s sumptuous cab. This truly was one impressive piece of machinery, light-years away from anything I’m sure he could have ever envisioned as a young man with a family to raise.

“Honestly, Grandpa, I have no idea,” I replied, feeling a bit lost. “I haven’t been here in so long, and I know a lot of things have changed.” I paused, lifting my gaze and regarding him thoughtfully. “Do you have anywhere you like to go? Show me around a little.” I bit my lip. I hated sounding so indecisive, but I really wasn’t sure what was even here anymore. “Is that okay?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, sounding chipper. Give Grandpa a mission, and he was happy. I had just made him my unofficial tour guide, and I could see he was getting into the idea. “You’ve never been to Peninsula Town Center, have you?”

I wracked my brain, coming up short. The name didn’t sound familiar. “Um, no?” I said, shaking my head. “What is it?”

He smiled. “It’s a whole bunch of stores and shops and restaurants, kind of like a mall. Since they tore down Coliseum Mall, they had to do something with all that space, you know.” He turned the key in the ignition and the truck roared to life. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Well, it sounds like a plan, then.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “But really, are you sure you want to go shopping?”

“You’re a girl. I’m sure you probably like doing that, right?” He chuckled.

I shrugged. “Yes and no. It can be fun, if you’re in the right mood and with the right people,” I admitted.

“So. Am I the right people?” he asked with a smile. I peered closely at him, examining every inch of his timeworn face. The question was asked flippantly, but I saw the unexpected slight sheen of tears in his eyes. Even though he was playing the whole situation quite well, I could tell it was wearing on him—even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself or to anyone else.

“You’re definitely the right people,” I said, hoping he knew just how much I meant them. “Am I the right people?” I heard my voice break.

“You bet. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather go with. We can have lunch while we’re out there, too,” he replied, glancing at the glowing face of the clock on the space-age dashboard.

I followed his gaze. “Good Lord, there are a lot of lights and things on there,” I marveled, feeling my eyes widen. It made me feel overwhelmed, just looking at them. “How do you keep all of that straight?”

Grandpa’s grin broadened as he peeked in the rearview mirror and began to back out of the garage. “To tell you the truth, Dellie, I haven’t figured it all out yet. It’s got so many bells and whistles on there, I don’t think I’ll find them all before it’s time to trade it in for a new one!”

“Seriously,” I breathed. “I’d be afraid to start it, I think. Something might explode!” I giggled.

“It’s definitely something. What they don’t put in cars nowadays.” He shook his head, turning out onto the road to head toward our newly determined destination. Just the two of us, on an adventure together. I thought about that a minute, realizing I’d never actually gone anywhere with him on my own. Grammie had always been with us—and if she wasn’t there, there was always someone else there. It was odd, a foreign sensation, and the sudden realization made it seem all the more important to get things right.

“So have you been there many times before?” I asked, shifting the conversation back to our outing.

He shook his head. “No. I went there a few times before Christmas to get some gifts, a couple of times to pick up some birthday presents for the little ones,” he murmured. There was a melancholy to his voice, his words underscored by the unspoken acknowledgement that my grandmother would have been the one to make those trips. Instead, he was relearning the landscape on his own, no longer accompanied by the companion who had seen him through so many years. No longer was there a feminine hand to guide him, at the helm of the ship as it wended its way through the sometimes perilous seas of crowds at the mall or in the grocery store.

“I guess it’ll be some exploring for both of us, then,” I chirped, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

He nodded in silent contemplation as he scrolled through his own limited experience at the string of shops. “I know there’s the Penney’s, Macy’s—used to be Hecht’s, you know,” he enumerated. “Some big book store. I think it’s a Barnes and Nobles,” he continued, adding an extra “s” to the store’s name. “Target’s a little ways down, too. Some restaurants and a bunch of stores that I’ve never heard of before.” He paused. “Most of ’em I’ve never heard of before. But we’ll see what kind of trouble we can get into.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a wink and a little smile. “You can be my date.”

I blushed, feeling an unexpected little lift at the idea. We could make this special, rather than sad. This time together, I thought with new determination, was going to be a gift to both of us. Something that we would be able to treasure and build on. A new time to forge a better relationship and learn new things about one another.

After all, I now realized, settling deeper into the supple leather of my seat, there were so very many facets of this man I had never seen. So many stories I’d never heard and so many memories that he had never shared with me. And I was hungry to hear every bit of it.

“Where should we go first?” he asked, pulling up to the impressive complex after a quick drive. Grandpa turned to look at me, his watery blue eyes showing their age and an undeniable bit of evidence that this whole ordeal really was taking its toll on him—despite his best efforts to seem unfazed.

I felt my eyebrows rise, and I shook my head. “I have no idea, Grandpa. This is going to be a little like the blind leading the blind,” I admitted. “And you’re really being a good sport and all, but I don’t want you to be bored out of your gourd, either.” I frowned thoughtfully. “Do they have any stores that you’d be interested in?”

He turned his eyes back to the big, busy maze of parking lots, bustling with activity despite the fact that it was only mid-morning on a weekday. “Since they don’t have any hardware stores, I guess maybe I’d have to say the bookstore?” he replied, sounding a bit unsure in his answer.

I nodded enthusiastically.

Good.

This was good. He was directing the ship, something I knew he was good at and would happily take on as a challenge. Maybe it would keep him busy and distracted enough that he really wouldn’t mind the fact that we didn’t really have a particular mission to fulfill. Grandpa wasn’t used to idleness. Most things that he did served a purpose. Most of his encounters with the retail world were driven and focused around a need, rather than simply enjoying the scenery and exploring. The man didn’t seem to understand the concept of a stroll, much less window-shopping.

I glanced over at him. Maybe it was time to teach him, I thought, feeling a tiny smile creep across my lips.

“Books, yes. That sounds great!” I replied, hoping I didn’t sound overly bright or phony.

It might have seemed like a trivial thing, but I knew this first outing—just him and me—was much more important than a simple jaunt to the store to kill some time. It was an opportunity for us to connect, to establish some groundwork in areas that had for so long been unaddressed. There had never been a need before, really. Grammie had always been somewhat of a buffer, a cushioning element to his potentially sharp edges. True, he had softened greatly since my childhood, but Grandpa was still Grandpa, and there was still a gruff nature that hadn’t fully been sanded down, even in the mellowing years.

He smiled at me, starting to look a little more relaxed. I wanted so much to say something, to tell him how much I loved him and wanted him to be okay. To have him understand how full my heart was of love for him. To tell him how much I missed Grammie.

So many things I wanted to say; but I kept silent, fearful that I might break the spell and ruin the light mood.

“What do you like to look at when you go to the bookstore?” I asked, genuinely interested. I hadn’t ever actually seen my grandfather read a book. In fact, I had no earthly idea what he might want to read, other than the morning paper.

He shrugged. “I like to look at some of the magazines, especially the car racing ones,” he replied simply, eyes searching for a parking spot near our stated destination.

“I could live in a bookstore.” I sighed. “I love books. I just wish they didn’t cost so much,” I lamented.

“Well, one of these days, you’ll have a book in there. Maybe lots of books,” he said, sounding confident rather than conciliatory.

“Oh, I hope so. I really, really hope so. Sometimes it feels like I work so hard to get somewhere, and it all ends up as nothing.” I shook my head, suddenly feeling heavy. “Sometimes I think I’m being a complete idiot, doing what I’m doing.”

“Who told you that?” he demanded, sounding blustery. “I’ve read your articles, Dellie. Your mama sends them to me sometimes, and they’re really good.” He reached over and rested a big, gnarled hand on my thigh, patting gently. “Don’t let anybody tell you any different. You’ve got something.” He stopped suddenly, and I heard a tiny crack in his voice. “You’ve got something special.”

I felt my throat swell and my nose prickle with the telltale sign of tears. I wasn’t used to this kind of praise from him, nor was I used to seeing much that bordered on vulnerability from someone usually so in control.

“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said quietly. “That really means a lot. More than you know.” I took his big hand in mine, feeling its rough warmth as I squeezed it.

“I mean it. I wouldn’t lie to you, just ask me,” he said with a grin, reciting words I had heard so often from his lips. That was one thing you could always count on Grandpa to deliver—a rotating list of his standby lines and jokes. They were almost comforting in their predictability. Some things would never change; and sometimes, that was exactly the reassurance you needed.

We meandered along the sidewalk, passing glass storefronts with well-placed displays and mannequins dressed to the hilt in tailored dresses and vertiginous heels. I took mental notes and drooled inwardly, wishing I had the budget to dress like these plaster-cast women, wondering if I would ever be able to afford any of it and still be a writer. There were days when I particularly felt the squeeze of my paltry income, and going shopping seemed more like a minefield than a joy. It was a reminder of what I didn’t—and couldn’t—have. Once upon a time, I had enjoyed window-shopping. Now, it often felt like a punishment, an inaccessible carrot dangling maliciously in front of me.

I must have sighed out loud without realizing it.

“Why so blue?” Grandpa asked, suddenly pulling me back to the present.

I shook my head, not wanting to tell him what I was thinking or feeling. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was wallowing in self-pity or somehow angling for him to buy me something. We were out, two adults exploring a whole new world; and I didn’t want him to feel like that didn’t mean something to me.

“I can tell something’s bothering you, but I’m not going to make you talk.” He kept his eyes trained ahead, the bookstore in his line of vision. “You want to talk, you just say so. I’ll listen.”

“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. I reached out and slipped my hand in his as I matched my stride to his to catch up a bit. “You too. Anytime you want to talk—about anything—I’m here. I have two good ears for listening.”

“Me, too,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before turning his face to me. “See?” he asked with a mischievous wink. He grinned, and I noticed the slight movement of his ears, back and forth, back and forth, in a subtle wiggle waggle that he had always delighted in showing off to all of his grandchildren as we watched in childish wonder. Part of the magic of Grandpa—an irreplaceable element of what made him different from everyone else’s grandpa.

Peter Samuelson had magical ears.

Chapter Eight

The morning passed in an easy melting of hours. We drifted along together, separating to make our solo voyages from corner to corner of the bookstore, each missionless in our missions. And that was truly the point. We had random points of rendezvous as we traversed the sales floor, checking occasionally with one another to decide if we wanted more time or if either of us was ready to leave. We made our way through a stream of stores this way, happily floating along in a comfortable bubble of silence, tossing in an observation here and there, a random thought or memory adding color to the landscape as we passed.

And then, there it was—rising up before us like a beacon.

The glittering storefront of Victoria’s Secret.

To say the magnetic pull was undeniable would have been an understatement. It was like being sucked into a vortex. My feet propelled me forward in a steady march, seemingly of their own accord.

“If you want to go in, I’ll go just down a bit to that sports store.”

I snapped my mouth shut, realizing I had stopped dead in front of the store’s big window, with its proud display of sleekly simple mannequins decked out in alluring lace underthings and satiny smooth slips—cheerfully thwarting the lines of modesty, even in their lack of detail.

Not only had I stopped there in my tracks, but I’d been staring, slack-jawed and transfixed like a bug with the zapper in its sights.

Dellie.

The mannequins seemed to whisper.

“What?” I said, not sure whether I was really talking to the mannequins or my grandfather, who now stood next to me on the sidewalk, his eyes boring into me as he waited for me to answer.

“Do you want to go in?” he repeated, not unkindly.

My eyes widened in horror.

I was standing in front of a lingerie store. With my grandfather.

“Um,” I stuttered, not sure whether I wanted to admit to the fact that I really did want to go in. After all, what sane woman wants their grandpa to know that they wear Victoria’s Secret?

It was almost too much.

He chuckled. “It’s okay. Your Grammie used to like to go there for lotions. They smell nice, but I always let her go in by herself.”

I nodded enthusiastically, like a bobble head on a dashboard. “Yes, lotion. Very, very nice lotion,” I said quickly, not wanting to acknowledge the big pink panty-clad elephant in the room. Better not to let his mind wander that way, that his Dellie would ever consider wearing such scanty panties.

Noo. The only possible reason for me to ever go in there was for their signature line of body lotions and sprays. Heaven forbid I wear anything but Underoos or Fruit of the Loom.

“She wore the one that was purple,” he said now, his voice dropping to a sad hush.

“Love Spell,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“The purple lotion she wore. It was called Love Spell,” I said, smiling a small, wobbly smile at him. “It’s one of my favorites, too.” I paused, suddenly hearing words I’d heard her mutter to the sales consultants every single, solitary time I’d been in to a Victoria’s Secret with her. All those times, it had seemed an embarrassment—a crotchety, unnecessary observation that made her seem unpleasant and contrary. Two qualities that were far from the loving, giving woman that she actually was. “Victoria doesn’t have any secrets left,” I murmured.

A burst of laughter escaped Grandpa’s lips. “That’s what she said, isn’t it?” he boomed, shaking his head with a fond smile.

“Every time,” I agreed.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet, the leather well worn and bursting with bits of paper and cards shoved into every available space. “Here,” he said, flipping it open to pluck out a twenty. “Buy yourself some Love Spell and give them the message for your grammie.” The grin that spread across his face was one of boyish delight, one that broke my heart at the same time as it made it soar.

“For you, Grandpa, I’ll gladly tell them,” I said, smiling back at him as I gingerly took the extended bill from his fingers. “Stay out of trouble while I’m in there,” I added in mock sternness.

“I’m going to go over to that sports store and see if they have anything with my driver’s number on it. I’d like a new hat. You take your time,” he said, still smiling.

I leveled my gaze at him, more sober now. We’d gone to all the previous stores together, even if we hadn’t stayed glued to each other’s sides while we were there, and I felt a little like I was abandoning ship by not accompanying him. “You’re sure?” I asked, searching for reassurance.

He nodded without hesitation. “Most definitely. You go on in and find something, Dellie.”

Find something.

Though I knew their context, they were words that could have been taken so many ways.

Find something. In yourself. In your life. Find something to be proud of. Find something that makes you feel whole. Find something that makes you strong.

Find something.

“I will,” I said, taking a deep, determined breath. “I will.”

The warm glow of the store’s interior seemed something like a hug, and a welcoming waft of scented air greeted me as I entered the retail ode to lady-dom.

“Welcome to Victoria’s Secret,” a voice chirped as I passed a table of artfully arranged panties and bras, a colorful wash of neatly folded fabrics whispering suggestions of romance and self-confidence.

Honey, she doesn’t have any secrets left. The words tickled my tongue, begging to be let out to play.

“Hi,” I heard myself say instead, meekly glancing around the store as I got my bearings.

First things first, I needed to find the lotions. Then I would be free to explore and find what I really wanted in here: another pair of sparkly panties. They didn’t have to be pink, but I definitely wanted them to be sparkly. The pair I had found with Charlie had been perfect, and now I had my sights set on something equally special to add. I had a gift card from Bette and strict instructions to buy at least one more pair of pretties while I was here, and I was going to make the most of my unexpected trip to this palace of panties.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” The girl in front of me looked to be about twenty, dressed head to toe in the store’s strictly mandated black, though she wasn’t letting corporate dictates box her in—she wore a lacy black bustier top peeking out of a black blazer, a cropped specimen that hit her at hip level and showed off an hourglass figure and hiked her boobs up like a car on jacks. Leather leggings were capped off by patent black leather heels that appeared to add six inches to her height; and her bleached blonde hair had an unexpected shock of purple in it, cut into a pixie that displayed high cheekbones and bright green eyes. If she hadn’t seemed so friendly, I might have hated her.

“No, not really,” I said noncommittally, not wanting to be trailed around the store. “Just looking to see what’s in.”

“My name’s Erin. Just let me know if you need any help,” she bubbled.

“Great, thanks,” I bubbled back.

She toddled off, heels clacking over the floor’s slick tiles as she went.

When she was out of sight, I set about my wandering in earnest, scoping out each table and rack to search for something that fit the “sparkly” category.

It didn’t have to be pink.

Heck, it really didn’t even have to be sparkly; but I really wanted something sparkly.

Wear sparkles, feel sparkly, right?

And then, I saw it: a bright teal stretch satin and sequin thong that hung with glorious deliciousness from the clips on a hanger on a wall display, right below a coordinating bra with padded cups generous enough to fit my head.

True, I could never hope to wear a bra like that, but the panties were definitely in my wheelhouse.

They were decadent.

They were divine.

They were something that belonged nowhere in a sensible woman’s lingerie drawer.

They were the antithesis of the white granny panty.

And I had to have them.

“My George would have loved those,” a voice quipped behind me.

A guilty ripple of shock ran up my spine, and I snatched my hand away.

“George had a wicked streak, that’s for sure,” the voice continued. While the voice bore distinct traces of age and years of a cigarette habit, it was still melodic. There was feistiness and spunk, and I could imagine the speaker, even as I turned around.

I tried to arrange my face into a confident smile rather than a guilty, self-conscious grimace to face this person, this interrupter of my hunt for the perfect panty.

The face that greeted me bore no resemblance to the image I had conjured in my head.

I was expecting to see Shirley MacLaine but was greeted, instead, by someone whose features seemed a strange mash-up between Estelle Getty and Ellen Albertini Dow, that weird little old lady who played the rapping grandma in The Wedding Singer. Needless to say, I had to shift my gaze down to meet her eyes—so short was she.

Not that I’m all that tall, but still.

She was positively itty-bitty.

“And boy, could we make some trouble together,” she said, reaching up, up to stand on tiptoe and trace over the sequins. “George would have loved these,” she said again.

“George sounds like quite a guy,” I murmured, not quite sure how else to respond. I’d never met this woman before in my life, so the randomness of this encounter—while it certainly had all the components of an interesting story—was something I felt unprepared for. I don’t generally start up conversations with women who are obviously pushing ninety in the lingerie store, and the fact that I’d been fingering a pair of such racy underwear felt a bit…taboo?

“Oh, he was,” said the aged little woman who stood before me, her eyes crinkling in a smile. “We shocked everyone when we got married. It was quite the scandal,” she tittered.

By that point, I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my lips. There was no way around it. In the two minutes we’d been in one another’s company, I had no choice but to be absolutely fascinated by the impossibly impish little sprite in front of me, and the writer inside of me was dying to know more.

“Really? Why?”

“Because he was already engaged to someone else, and we ran off together and eloped!” she stage-whispered, leaning closer to me and widening bright green eyes that were positively vivacious.

“You stole him from his fiancée? How did you do that?” I marveled.

She simply smiled. “A lady has to have some secrets, now doesn’t she?”

“That’s what my grandmother always said; not that you’d have much to worry about if you told me. I’m not even from here—I’m here from Pensacola, visiting.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she replied sweetly. “Do you have family here?”

I nodded. “My mom’s family is all here. My grandmother died about six months ago, so I thought I’d come and spend some time with my grandfather.” It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Not that I owed her the whole story, but I still felt a little guilty at the spin I was putting on things: dutiful, loving granddaughter on a trip to comfort her grieving grandfather. Again, partially true, but to get into the details of my own need for the trip would have taken too long. And been a little too personal, really. Better to keep it all simple.

“That’s a shame,” she tutted, her previous smile replaced by a look of concern. “What was her name? I might have known her. When you’re as old as me and you stay in one place your whole life, you know everybody.”

“Meredith Samuelson. Everybody called her Merry, though.”

The sprite’s eyes grew wide. “You’re one of Merry Samuelson’s granddaughters? Oh, my dear.” She clucked. “Dear, dear, I’m so sorry,” she added, reaching up to rest a light hand on my arm, just the right mix of sorrow, sympathy, and social propriety. She may have had a thing for racy lingerie, but the lady also had class. No doubt this woman had been to many a cotillion in her youth. “You must miss her—she was such a sweet lady. And she certainly lived up to her name.” She paused. “Now, which one of the grandchildren are you?”

“I’m Odelle.”

“No,” she protested. “Dellie’s only a bitty little girl. You’re a young woman; you can’t be Dellie,” she said, looking square into my face. “Well.” Headshaking ensued as she searched my eyes. “Time does fly, doesn’t it, Dellie?”

I nodded.

“Your grandmama and I didn’t really run in the same circles, but I always thought she was lovely. And her cakes were to die for. She made every wedding cake, anniversary cake, and birthday cake I ever needed. If it wasn’t Merry’s cake, it wasn’t at one of my parties; and every lady in the League always called her, too,” said the tiny woman in front of me, whose name I had yet to discover.

“She did make some wonderful cakes,” I agreed solemnly. “You’re going to have to forgive me, though—I don’t remember ever meeting you. And it’s been a very long time since I last visited, I’m sorry to say,” I said, meaning every word to my core.

It really had been far too long since I’d made my last trip up there, and the changes I saw everywhere seemed to make it glaringly obvious. Now, it was too late. Grammie was gone, and I’d never again get to curl into her arms for a hug as she sat in her blue La-Z-Boy recliner or watch her whip butter into the sugar for her frosting, her generous frame moving about in the familiar process of mixing magic. She wore no chef’s jacket in her small kitchen, but the housecoats she always donned may as well have been her uniform as she worked, tunelessly singing the words to some old song from her youth.

I felt a swell of emotion run through me.

“Well, it’s good that you’re here now.” The white head nodded, then stopped abruptly as she remembered that she still hadn’t properly introduced herself. “But Lord, where are my manners?” she scolded herself.

Given our earlier conversation, I doubted that she was one to stand on ceremony and had a certain relish for thwarting the etiquette books to create a stir. Not that she hadn’t memorized every word on every page, but one got the distinct impression that she didn’t often heed the rules unless they served to her benefit.

“I’m Annabelle MacMillan,” she said at last, her face once again wreathed in a smile. “Like I said, your grandmama and I didn’t really socialize much; but I knew her well enough to know that many, many people loved her and will miss her.” Her hand remained on my forearm as she spoke.