Surprise Party
by Kimberly Diaz
It’s one of those blah Sunday afternoons, when there’s nothing good on, and you’ve read all your best books three times already so you just sit on your ass and scroll through social media. One can only look for so long at pictures of everybody’s lunch and see the results of yet another quiz everyone’s taking, this time it’s Pick Your Birth Vegetable to See What Kind of Person You Are. I think, what the heck, it’s 4:00 o’clock, close enough. I wander into the kitchen for a drink. It’s not much of a wander, maybe twelve feet from the couch to the fridge, but I take the long way around the coffee table to get some much needed exercise.
I’m pouring myself some of the most reasonably priced rotgut available when I hear footsteps. They don’t sound like the guy across the hall’s flip-flops or the lady next door’s high heels. I start to put the bottle back in the fridge then think, no I’ll just leave it on the counter. I don’t need that much exercise.
I hear a light rap on the door and my name, Kimberly.
It’s my grandmother’s voice. I shudder and set the glass down. She died nearly two decades ago. As I slowly creep toward the door, and I do mean slowly, I glance at the Weird Talking Cats calendar hanging somewhat crookedly on the kitchen wall. It’s March 30th! Her birthday!
I stand close to the door, listening. My nostrils flare. Is that Jean Nate? It was her favorite scent. I remember her spraying it on after she’d rinse her mouth with hydrogen peroxide straight from the bottle to whiten her teeth and then lean toward the mirror to apply red lipstick, also rubbing some on her cheeks for blush.
Another more insistent rap.Kimberly, it’s me, Grandma Mary.
Definitely her voice. Sweet, but a little scratchy and shaky. Trembling, I unlock and open the door. There she is, just the way I remember her, from the time when she could still walk and keep both eyes open, when we spent hot Miami afternoons watching The Love Connection or The Price is Right while eating tuna sandwiches, or if we were treating ourselves, KFC.
Her hair is black and wavy, with just a little gray. She has the same eyeglasses, sturdy brown oval-shaped frames, not the most flattering but the thick lenses do the job. She’s wearing an old-fashioned floral dress, probably plucked from a thrift shop for fifty cents. The same sensible canvas flats on her feet. The only difference I can see is that there’s a white light shining all around her.
My eyes open wide. “Grandma Mary!”
I open the door wider, stepping backward. I’m still trying to process the fact that I’m seeing her in what appears to be the flesh. I gasp. “What are you doing here?”
She smiles, like always, wide and sincere. “I took the day off,” she says, chuckling, wiping her feet on the mat.
She steps carefully over the threshold. “You’ve got a cute little place here.”
I close the door behind her. “It’s a rental.”
It’s so hot out, she must be parched. “Come in and sit down. Are you thirsty?”
As she passes the kitchen she peers inside, and I wince. I know she sees the wine bottle.
“What are you drinking?” she says as she enters the living room and plops down on the couch.
I can’t lie to my favorite grandmother after she’s traveled all this way. South, I’m sure.
“I was going to have a glass of wine, but I think I’ll just have water. You want some?”
She’d never approved of drinking or smoking and I’d been a big fan of both, but it wasn’t her way to scold or nag. She’d just say what she thought was right and then I’d always feel bad about doing it, like I’d let her down.
She smooths out the folds of her skirt, “Let’s have some of that wine.”
She throws up her hands. “It’s my birthday, might as well celebrate.”
Hearing this shocks me almost as much as seeing her sitting on my sofa.
“That’s right! It is. Okay!”
I hurry into the kitchen, before she disappears I guess, and pour her a glass, grab both, then rush back to the living room where to my continued amazement she’s still sitting there.
I frown, handing her the wine. "Sorry, it’s not the best quality.”
She lifts her glass to mine. “It’s the company that counts.”
I nod, “To the most wonderful grandmother a girl could ever have. Happy Birthday, Grandma Mary.”
Then I have this feeling. One I hardly ever get anymore. Deep, deep emotion. It feels good and hurts at the same time. I swallow hard. It feels good to feel.
We clink our glasses and sip. It’s pretty bad. If I’d known my grandmother was coming down and wanted to party, I’d have splurged on the good stuff, whatever that is.
I watch her closely, on the lookout for any evaporation or anything.
After a while, I relax, sit next to her, hug her, tell her how much I love her and have missed her. She says I was her favorite grandchild--quite the compliment because she had so many.
I refill our glasses and we talk and laugh about the good old days. The time we went for a long walk then got lost on the way back home, the ice cream we’d bought on sale all melted and dripping through the paper bag. The morning I was in my car and saw her at the bus stop, offered her a ride to work and then ran out of gas. And those cheese puffs and apple turnovers we baked in the oven. Those were so good.
Pretty soon, I’m opening another bottle, pouring us another glass. Our third? Fourth?
“How long can you stay?” I ask.
She tilts her head and smiles. “I never left.”
Kimberly Diaz is a teacher and writer in the dystopian state of Florida. She's been a finalist in six writing contests and her work has
appeared in Entropy, Montana Mouthful, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Dorothy Parker's Ashes, and other lit mags and anthologies. She’s currently working on an essay collection and an autobiographical novel. She is on and off FB, rarely checks Instagram (@mskdiaz), and is afraid to make her still incomplete but scandalous website public. Still, if you are determined, she can be reached at kdwrites@yahoo.com.