THE FIRST TIME I HATED MY GRANDMOTHER was when she took a one month trip to Japan. She’d waved me off at the airport, but she didn’t truly see me as she pressed me into my mother’s arms. Her hair was already wind-tousled, her sunglasses in place, and the thrill of adventure burned red on her cheeks. In her mind, she was already on vacation, while I—I was forgotten.
My mother tried to make small talk on the drive home. She asked me if I liked the woods around my Grandmother’s house. She asked me if I still painted. She asked me if I enjoyed spending so much time in the countryside.
I told her the countryside was quiet. She said nothing after that.
Life at home was not quiet. My parents had separated out rooms into miniature warzones, and all day every day they picked at each other’s flaws like old wounds that had never been allowed to scab. It almost felt healthier when they shouted than when they flung muddy insults at each other’s backs.
I didn’t go downstairs to watch TV. I didn’t go outside and play. I stayed locked in my room, my mood dark. Only the school bus’s arrival each morning was a welcome escape.
My Grandmother sent me one postcard, two weeks into her vacation. She’d found an owl café in Osaka and planned to visit one in Tokyo too, before her time was up. She’d been allowed to cuddle a bird while sucking down coffee, which she described as heavenly.
I hated her more for that. How dare she have fun while I stewed in this cesspit? How could she rub my face in the adventures I was missing out on? Why couldn’t I have gone along?
“You have school,” she’d said. “And I’ll not have a delinquent under my roof. It starts with skipping school, then you’re smoking in the boys’ room, and then next thing you know, you’re fifteen and pregnant.”
“I can learn things in Japan too.”
“Yes, but your Grandma’s going to learn them first. Besides—” her eyes had softened “—they’re your parents.”
I understood. I understood far more than my Grandmother had said. I understood that she didn’t want me around either, that I was just a nuisance, that I’d spoil her trip.
So I didn’t write her back. Anger burned like a pit in my stomach. I tore up her postcard and then, for good measure, ran it through my father’s paper shredder.
When my mother took me to pick my Grandmother up from the airport, I didn’t get out of the car to greet her. I stayed in the back, eyes glued to the Italian plumber jumping across my Gameboy’s screen. I didn’t look up when she knocked on the window, nor when she climbed in beside me.
“You’re being a little shit,” she said. “I got you something.”
“You said I shouldn’t say ‘shit.’”
“Yeah, well, if the boot fits....” She sighed. “I know your month sucked. But it wasn’t entirely your parents’ fault. You made it suck all on your own. Now you’re coming back with me, but I need you to drop this attitude, or there’ll be a funk hanging over the whole damn house.”
“You left me.”
“Yes. I did. And I’m going to leave you again. People come and go and eventually I’m going to wander my way right off this mortal coil. But I’m not dead yet, so don’t sour the time we have left.”
I had nothing to say with that. I gave my video game my full attention, even though I’d run out of lives.
“Here,” my Grandmother said as she pressed a lumpy package into my hands.
“Is it an owl?”
My Grandmother beamed. “You bet your ass it’s an owl. A Shimafukuro, otherwise known as a Blakiston’s Fish Owl. Or a stuffed toy of one, at least.”
“I don’t like stuffed animals.”
“Hmmph. Suits me fine. I’ll keep it for myself. You won’t see me complaining about another souvenir. But you might want to reconsider this one, because Japanese owls? They’re lucky. And you’d be hard pressed to find a better guide.”
I didn’t forgive my Grandmother on the drive home. I didn’t forgive my Grandmother for months. But I didn’t throw away the gift she’d given me, so some part of me must have been glad she was back.