Call Me Charlie

Issue 335

You guys,

I walked into the kids room, again, and asked them why they weren’t in their beds.

“How long will it take me to fall asleep, Mama?” George asked as he let me tuck him in. “What if I can’t?”

He sometimes got anxious when he couldn’t fall asleep, which is why he preferred to listen to stories on his new Yoto player, but it was already packed for the big travel day tomorrow. Layla, meanwhile, on the other side of the room, lined up a dozen stuffed animals near her make-shift bed on the floor and whispered directives at them. Although I wanted her in bed, I preferred this to her being scared.

Many nights this summer, I walked back and forth from my room to the kids’ room to check on Layla. Sometimes, Sam and George were already asleep, and she was scared that I would fall asleep soon and she’d be the only one awake. “But guess what?” I told her on all those nights. “You’ll never be the only one awake, because who’s always awake?”

“Grandma,” Layla answered. “But how do I know she’s awake?”

“Shh, sh, listen,” I continued. “Do you hear that? That’s the TV on. Oh, and did you just hear that? The refrigerator door just opened! Grandma’s probably getting some water.”

Jan was a night owl. She stayed up until close to midnight, catching up on her reading and her shows.

When I moved back to my room, leaving the door open just in case for middle of the night visitors, the warm glow from downstairs filled the upstairs hallway, and the distant sound of a muffled television show comforted me, too. I heard the familiar dinging of the old grandfather clock. It chimed every fifteen minutes, and on the hour it bellowed a soothing, repetitive gong that echoed through the house.

During our 5-week stay in Charlotte, George had become his Grandpa’s shadow, following him around the house and asking what he was doing. They spent hours playing chess games and chess puzzles. Sometimes they played indoor soccer up in the playroom. Grandma was often downstairs doing yet another craft with Layla or playing the longest game of War. She was the kind of grandmother who, when Layla asked if they could do a craft, always said yes. I don’t know how she always had spare crafts ready to go. At night, Hank and Jan cooked us delicious dinners, sometimes serving wine. Hank shared the story of the wine and the winery and the vintage, and Sam and I sent side eye glances to each other, a potentially not-so subtle message of, “We don’t care, Hank. Just pour the wine.”

When I left, abruptly, for two weeks, and my dad died, Sam and Hank and Jan continued their days as usual. The kids had a great summer. I don’t know how long they’ll remember this summer for, but I’m pretty sure they think their grandparents are two of the greatest people in the world.

On the early morning of our departure, we stood in the driveway while it was still pitch black outside, the temperature already warm and muggy. I didn’t know how to show my immense gratitude to Jan, but without thinking, when I hugged her, I said, “Thank you so much for everything. Love you and appreciate you.” When I pulled away we made eye contact and I saw her look of shock. She didn’t say anything back.

We had never said I love you before. They said it to the kids, I think, but never to me or Sam. It just wasn’t something they did.

My dad said I love you all the time—every time we talked, like he needed to make sure we knew he loved us. He didn’t start saying it until my mid 20s, when my aunt died of cancer much too young, in her 50s. He’d been very close with his sister. After that, it was constant I love yous. It was probably weird at first, and maybe we even groaned or teased him about it, but nothing stopped him from saying it, and then it became normal.

As we pulled out of the driveway the kids waved goodbye to the Charlotte house. We would miss this place. I would especially miss that grandfather clock, and the warm glow at bedtime.

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Until next week,

Charlie