Gracefully grayson, p.7
Gracefully Grayson, page 7
“Good morning!” she says, smiling, as we walk in, and raising the blinds throughout the store. The countertops and tile floor glisten in the sunlight.
Two other saleswomen greet us, too. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” one asks. She’s dressed neatly in a red turtleneck sweater, and her hair is wound into a tight, black bun.
“We’re just browsing,” Amelia answers expertly. She turns to me. “Our section is back here.” She grabs my arm and guides me to a second room that’s empty, except for us.
This store is definitely nicer than the Second Hand. There’s a much better selection, and it seems cheerful. I don’t know why, because the Second Hand is kind of gross, but for a minute I miss it—its familiar sloped, wooden floors and musty mothball smell. I think of all the time I spent looking for clothes in the boys’ section—shirts that were too long or especially radiant.
I run my hands over the newer-looking clothing on the racks. I find a deep purple sweater that looks like it will fit and hang it over my arm. I roam around the quiet room and stop next to another rack.
I study the skirts in front of me and pull out a long one. XS, $15.00 is written on the tag. I hold it up, close to my face. The fabric is thin and creamy yellow. It looks like an antique. It’s decorated with dainty embroidery and, around the bottom, tiny, amber beads hang delicately from a lace ribbon. I run the palm of my hand beneath them and smile. It looks like something Persephone might wear.
My mind wanders back to the deep-burgundy curtains on the stage, the warm, thick air, and the smooth indentation of the golden letters on the script. The rhythm of the drumbeat pounds distantly in my ears. I drape the skirt over my arm on top of the purple sweater and walk into a dressing room.
I hang the sweater on a hook on the wall. In the corner is a small stool covered in disgusting-looking green fabric. There’s a rip on its surface where yellow foam pokes through. I put the skirt on top of the tear and take off my pants.
Amelia parts the curtains of the dressing room next to me. “Don’t they have such a better selection?” she asks. I see her feet through the space below the thin divider that separates us. Her metal hangers clang on the hooks.
“Definitely,” I tell her. I shake my damp shoes off my feet. A ball of icy snow on the tan carpet soaks through my sock. I’m in a daze. It’s like I’m somebody else.
“My mom got an amazing dress here,” Amelia says from her dressing room. I pull on the skirt and zip it up the side. It fits me perfectly. I take a step toward the mirror. The tiny beads tickle my ankles and make a gentle shaking sound, like two dice in a hand, or raindrops.
“Did you find anything good?” Amelia asks.
I pull my socks off. “Yeah,” I tell her absently. I turn to see how I look from the side. The dice knock together again, softly. More raindrops and my beating heart. I look up. The mirror seems as tall as a building, and I suddenly feel like someone is behind me, but I can see there’s only the beige back wall of the dressing room. I turn around to be sure, but I’m all alone.
I reach for the curtain. There’s a bigger, three-way mirror on the wall next to the windows. All that exists now is me and this skirt, and I need to see how I look in the light.
The carpet is damp beneath my bare feet, but I don’t mind. I stand in front of the mirror and examine myself. My hair is getting long. I lift up my white T-shirt so I can see the top of the skirt. It rests perfectly against my stomach. The lace is completely magnificent.
And suddenly, Amelia’s image joins mine in the mirror. Her old socks are bunched around her pale ankles. She’s wearing a blue jean jacket over her pink T-shirt and a long, flowery skirt. She’s smiling. Her eyes glisten and dance. I don’t breathe.
She throws her head back and laughs. Her hair swings behind her. “Grayson! What are you doing? You’re hilarious!” I watch her eyes in the mirror as they travel down my body, and up again, from the amber beads to my eyes. I keep my eyes fixed on the image of hers as, with her grin fading, she scans my body, looking for clues. Our eyes meet again in the mirror.
Her face is suddenly serious. “Grayson,” she whispers, “what are you doing?” She looks forward in the mirror toward the back of the store. I can hear the saleswomen in the distance. We stand side by side, staring at each other. She pushes her hair out of her face. “What are you doing?” she asks again. “Do you want people to think you’re crazy?” I can’t move.
“Grayson!” she whispers.
I think of Lila’s crimson skirt. That should have been my skirt. I turn and look at Amelia, at her wide eyes and pale, freckled skin. Her voice returns to its normal level, and she looks out the window. “So, I better get home,” she says. “There’s a ten-thirty or an eleven o’clock bus, but I told my mom we wouldn’t be long, so I better head out.”
“Okay,” I tell her. I can barely feel my own mouth forming the words.
She looks at her feet. “So are you coming, or are you staying longer?”
“I’m coming.”
We change into our own clothes quickly. I leave the skirt in a heap on the dressing room floor, and we walk outside into the freezing air.
It’s snowing again by the time we get on the bus, and we sit next to each other, looking ahead. My fingers and toes are freezing, but the back of my neck is on fire. I can’t get the image of a cast list on Finn’s office door out of my mind. Suddenly, I can’t bear the thought of getting the role. But when I think of not getting it, I can’t bear the thought of that, either. I wonder if I’m getting sick, and I rub a circle on the window. I need to see out, but it immediately fogs up so I stare at the cracked blue seat cushion in front of me instead.
We ride in silence, and I think about how loud the quiet is; I think about what it means. Finally, the bus slows to a stop on Randolph. I’m desperate to get off, but I can barely bring myself to move. My legs ache, and I know everything is over. Even if Finn doesn’t cast me as Persephone, Amelia will tell the other girls. They’ll be talking about me at lunch, about the boy who tried on a skirt—a beautiful, beautiful skirt. The gossip will spread down the lunch table like a disease, and nobody will ignore me again.
I stumble off the bus and walk across Randolph. Snow blows down my collar. I picture it turning to steam on my burning neck.
THE DOORMAN opens the glass doors for me, and I stagger through. I immediately see Aunt Sally and Uncle Evan across the lobby standing close together, waiting for the elevator. Uncle Evan is holding one of those big manila envelopes, and they’re talking excitedly.
I take a deep breath and try hard to pretend that everything is normal, but I feel wobbly when I walk. I can’t stop thinking about Amelia’s eyes staring at me in the mirror. “Hi,” I say softly, coming up behind Aunt Sally and Uncle Evan. They turn around quickly.
“Grayson, you’re home already!” Uncle Evan says, and they look at each other, smiling. I watch their eyes wander to the envelope in his hand. There’s a ding, and the elevator doors open. I’m boiling, and I take off my jacket. Inside, Aunt Sally pushes the button, and we start to move.
“What’s going on?” I ask, studying their strange-looking grins. Just talking makes me tired, but I try to act normal. I try to block out everything that just happened.
Aunt Sally gives Uncle Evan a little nudge. “Well, ah, we found something in your grandma’s things that you’re going to be very interested in,” Uncle Evan says. My heart leaps, and my face feels even more flushed than before.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“Look,” Uncle Evan says, and he holds out the envelope. I reach for it. On the outside in red pen it says Letters from Lindy (Save for Grayson).
I can feel sweat on my forehead now.
“Your grandmother obviously put these aside for you,” Aunt Sally says, beaming. “Probably a long time ago. Can you believe it, Grayson?”
The doors open, but I can hardly move. Aunt Sally puts her hand on my back, guiding me out of the elevator.
“Grayson, honey,” she says suddenly, stopping in the hallway. She studies my face. “Are you okay? You feel warm!” She holds her hand over my forehead. I think again of Amelia’s wide eyes and clutch the envelope in my hand. Letters from Lindy.
I want to lean into Aunt Sally’s hand. But instead, I tell her, “I don’t know. I feel weird.” My eyes are hot. I look at the envelope. I turn it over in my hands. “Where was this?”
“Is he okay?” Uncle Evan asks, touching my forehead. “I can’t tell. Is he warm?”
“Where was this?” I ask again.
“Honey, it was in your grandma’s files, the ones that Adele packed up for us.” Aunt Sally fumbles with the keys and unlocks the door. “Get out of those wet clothes and we’ll talk about it. We assume your grandma must have put those aside for you before she got sick. We were going to read them, but we decided not to.” She pauses. “They belong to you.”
I feel like I’m floating across the hall. I stare at the envelope, at Mom’s name, Lindy, written in Grandma Alice’s wobbly cursive, and I stumble to my room. My footsteps don’t match the swish of surroundings passing me by and my legs don’t feel like mine. I take my damp pants off, leave them in a pile on the floor, and get into bed. My feet are icy between the cold sheets.
I lay the envelope in front of me. My heart thumps, and my eyes burn. The door opens slightly, and Aunt Sally pokes her head in. Uncle Evan is behind her. “Can we come in?” she asks.
I nod.
Aunt Sally has a thermometer in her hand. “Open,” she says. I do, and Uncle Evan sits on the foot of my bed.
“We’re happy to read those with you if you want,” Uncle Evan says. “We know it will probably be strange for you—”
The thermometer beeps, and Aunt Sally takes it out of my mouth. “It’s slightly high, but barely,” she says, and looks at my eyes again. “Grayson, how was your morning with Amelia? You’re home awfully early.”
I look away from her, at the painting on my wall. I focus on the bird. “It was fine,” I say.
She pauses, and I can feel her watching me. “Okay,” she says. “Should we read those letters with you? We know it might be difficult.”
“No!” I say quickly, and I pick up my envelope. “No. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.” I’m suddenly desperate for them to leave me alone.
“All right,” Aunt Sally says. Uncle Evan gets up off my bed. “You’ll let us know if you need anything?” he asks.
I nod, and they close my door behind them.
I turn the manila envelope over in my hands a few times before I open it and slowly tip the contents onto my bed. Three light blue envelopes slide out. They’re addressed to Grandma Alice. I run my fingers over the handwriting, squint at the dates stamped over the postage stamps, and put the letters in order from the first one written to the last. I line them up neatly, their corners touching. I realize I’m not breathing and I force myself to.
I pick up the first envelope and turn it over. The return address on the back is our blue house in Cleveland. Grandma Alice didn’t open the sealed flap. There’s a neat, even slit across the top. I can imagine her slicing it open with the shiny metal mail opener that she kept in her kitchen drawer, and I wonder where that letter opener is now. The flap is licked shut. I know it’s Mom’s spit on the envelope. I run my finger along it, tearing open the flap. I close my eyes. I try to feel her.
Suddenly, it’s like I’m floating, cross-legged, on my bed. I can’t hear the TV or footsteps in the other room anymore, and everything is black. I feel the envelope, sturdy and thick. I open my eyes and peek inside.
The paper is pink inside the blue envelope. It’s bright, almost fuchsia, and I pull it out. Tucked inside the paper are some photographs. There’s a sudden crack in the blackness, and I feel like someone is watching me. I look at the door, but nobody’s there. I unfold the paper and take out two pictures. I put them in front of me, one by one.
Once, at Tessa and Hank’s lake house, I let myself sink to the sandy bottom in the shallow end of the lake. I plugged my nose and crossed my legs and opened my eyes. All around me was dark green and brushstrokes of light. The sound of nothing was very loud. It’s what I hear now. I’ll look at the pictures first, just for a minute. Then I’ll read the letter, I tell myself. Then look at the pictures again.
The silence is roaring in my ears. I scan the pictures, not wanting to see too much yet. In the first one, Mom is holding a baby in a hospital bed. It’s me. Her hand is cupped around my tiny back. In the other one, I am a little kid, looking up at the camera. My face is crisp in a surrounding blur.
I clutch the pink paper. My hands are sweating and I’m sure I’m wrinkling it, but I know Mom wouldn’t mind. I open the card. On the top is says September 6 and I look back to the date marked on the stamp. Mom wrote this almost exactly a year before the accident.
September 6
Dear Mom,
How are you? I miss you and hope you’re well! Today’s the big day—Grayson’s first day of preschool! I’m a little nervous about it, but I’m sure he’ll be fine. They have plenty of dress-up clothes and art supplies, so what could go wrong, right?!
Here are copies of the pictures I told you about. His teacher said they’ll be working on the “All About Me” books for a while, but when he brings his home, I’ll make a copy and send it to you right away.
Enjoy the pictures! Sending love from us all!
XO, Lindy
I put the pictures next to me. The air feels too thick. I want to read the other letters before I look at them again. Mom chose them. I want to save how she saw me for last.
I try to smooth out the wrinkles I made on the pink paper, and I put it back into the envelope. My hand is shaking as I open the second one. Inside is another bright pink card. The front of it is covered in purple scribbles. I unfold it carefully.
December 30
Dear Mom,
Grayson wants to say thanks for sending him the fantastic book of Greek myths for children! Can you read what he wrote? (Ha!) I’ll translate: “Gran, Christmas book, thanks!”
In all seriousness, he absolutely loves it. He begs me and Paul to read it to him all the time. Actually, that’s not accurate—he begs us to read him one of the stories over and over. He’s completely obsessed with “Myth of the Phoenix.” So much so that I’m going to add a phoenix flying above the earth in the painting I told you about. I’m finally almost done with it!
Thanks, Mom! Love you!
XO, Lindy (& Grayson)
I look up at Mom’s painting—at the red, yellow, and blue bird that I’ve been staring at for all these years. It’s a phoenix. I remember the story from fifth grade. I imagine a bird bursting into flames, its ashes in a heap on the floor until they finally take the shape, like magic, of another bird. My eyes are on fire. I can picture Mom’s hand holding a small, wooden brush and dipping it gently into the red, then yellow, then blue paint to create it. Did she use a palette to hold the colors? Paper cups? I want to hold her hand. I want to study its creases and paper cuts.
But obviously I can’t, so I pick up the last blue envelope that Grandma Alice put aside for me. It feels like there’s another photograph inside, and I pull out the last pink card. The picture falls onto my lap, face up.
In it, my eyes are bright. I’m in front of a mirror. I’m wearing a pink tutu.
September 3
Dear Mom,
Here’s the fantastic picture I was telling you about. Doesn’t he look adorable? Thanks for talking to me last night. I know, in my heart, that Paul and I are doing the right thing, but it’s been so hard for the past year since Grayson started going to school. I feel like we’re always being judged for how we allow him to dress.
What you said the other day is true: Grayson is who he is. If he continues to insist that he’s a girl, then it’s our job to support him. All I want is for him to be true to himself.
Anyway, thanks for continuing to keep this quiet. Paul and I both still want Grayson to have the power to show the world who he is—whoever that may be—on his own terms and in his own time. Sending hugs and kisses.
XO, Lindy
DARKNESS IS MOVING IN, and now the room is too dark and too bright all at the same time. Someone is holding the paintbrush, and they’re flip-flopping between the colors of the darkest night and the brightest day. When the light comes, the world is a crystal. I can smell the hand lotion and clementines again.
I stay in this world, and I study my pictures. I look at how Mom and Dad saw me, and this is what I see: I’m a baby in Mom’s arms in a hospital bed. I try to feel Dad’s hands; I know they’re holding the camera. My eyes are slits, and I’m wrapped in a white blanket. Mom is looking down at me. Her eyes look tired and heavy, but her smile is huge.
In the next picture, it’s just my face. I reach for Dad’s hands again. I want to pry them off the camera and hold them. Light is flowing in from somewhere, and it makes my eyes bright blue and my hair blonder. My face is calm, like I don’t care what anyone thinks. Beneath me, my shirt disappears into a blur of purplish blue and for some reason the thought enters my mind—the thought that this is the picture of what could have been.
When I look closely at the last one, I stop breathing for a minute. I’m in front of a mirror and in the corner of it a flash of light hides Mom’s and Dad’s faces. Dad is holding the camera, and Mom’s arm is around his waist. My back faces them and, in the mirror, I can see my smiling face. I’m wearing jeans and a white T-shirt underneath a pink tutu. In my hand is a plastic wand, its silver streamers swaying.
I close my eyes now, and I let the memory come to me—the only whole and complete one that I’ve kept from my first life. I let it float out of the velvet-lined box where I’ve kept it, locked carefully in my mind.
Mom and I are on top of a grassy hill. There’s an ocean below us, and hot, humid air holds us. I’m wearing red, yellow, and blue. The thick air is like warm water. It puffs out our shirts and lifts our hair. “Let go of my hand,” Mom says. “Put out your arms. Maybe this is how it feels to be a bird.”
