The Favour. Megan Hart
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missed with her son, but for the moment Nan seemed happy enough to accept the offer.
“English muffin with some peanut butter, honey, thank you. I made coffee. You can bring me a cup of that, too.” Nan sighed and looked at the bottles. One of them had a small cup tipped over the lid, like a shot glass, and she poured a dose of brown liquid into it and tossed it back with a grimace. “Oh, that’s nasty.”
The coffee turned out to be pitch-black and full of grounds. Janelle had yet to unpack her own sleek coffeemaker that not only ground the beans but also had different temperature settings and a milk frother, but seeing this mess she resolved to make finding it a priority. Nobody who liked coffee could drink that swill, and Janelle didn’t just like coffee, she considered it its own necessary food group. When she lifted the plastic top to peek inside at the filter, she found the basket overflowing with sodden grounds that looked as though they hadn’t been dumped in weeks. Digging a cautious finger into the mess, she unearthed a patch of mold.
“Nan,” she said in the doorway, careful to keep her voice neutral. “When’s the last time you made coffee?”
Nan looked up from a bottle she was trying to open. “Oh. I don’t drink it much, when it’s just me. Making a whole pot seems like such a waste. But now that you’re here, honey, you’ll drink it, won’t you? You like coffee.”
Janelle did indeed, but the stuff in the kitchen looked like a harbinger of the zombie apocalypse or something. A couple swigs and she’d become Patient Zero. Still, Nan had her pride.
“Something happened to it. I need to make a fresh pot, okay? It will be a few minutes. Unless you’d rather have tea?”
Nan looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t mind a nice cup of Earl Grey, honey. Sure. But if you want coffee...”
“I’m fine.” She’d have to be, at least until she cleaned the coffeemaker or unpacked her own.
Janelle filled a teakettle and found the tea in the corner cupboard where it had always been kept, on the shelf above the candy jar. The candy inside, sour balls in multiple colors, had melted and stuck together into an inedible mess. Janelle put the jar in the sink and filled it with hot water, hoping to dissolve the candy enough to wash it. Behind the jar she found a couple bags of unopened candy, the same sour balls and starlight mints, along with an ancient package of gummy spearmint leaves. It was the candy she remembered from her childhood, and from the look of the packages might’ve been purchased that long ago.
“Nan...” Janelle, candy in one hand, went to the doorway. At the table, her grandmother had put her face in her hands. Candy forgotten, Janelle rushed to her. “Nan! Are you okay?”
She looked up, her forehead creased and her mouth thin. She looked unfocused for a second, then pinned Janelle with her gaze. Her eyes had once been the color of a summer sky fluffed with clouds, but they’d gone a duller, dimmer blue. Washed out, Janelle thought. Everything about Nan had faded.
Janelle took her hand and chafed it gently, mindful of the arthritis. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I just got a little headache. My pressure might be up a bit too high, that’s all. I b’lieve I’d better lie down for a while.” She drew in a shuddering breath, but found a smile and patted Janelle’s hands. “It’s time for my nap, anyway.”
“Nan, it’s, like, eight-thirty in the morning.”
Her laugh, at least, hadn’t faded. “When you’re as old as I am, honey, your sleep gets all messed up. I was up at four this morning.”
At four this morning, Janelle had been tossing and turning, in the midst of a series of weird dreams in which she tried desperately to send text messages, but was unable to read them. She remembered peeking at the clock around that time. Maybe a noise from downstairs had woken her. Knowing Nan had been up and about without anyone else awake made her frown.
“You don’t want to eat your muffin first? How about your tea?”
Nan shook her head. “If I drink it now I’ll just have to pee, and I don’t want to have to worry about getting to the bathroom on time. I don’t always make it.”
Something twisted inside Janelle at Nan’s casual admission, but she didn’t let it show. “How about I help you to your bedroom and let you sleep, then.”
“I don’t need you to help me,” Nan said. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are.”
Still, Janelle pushed back her chair and held Nan’s arm to help her up from the table. The chair legs caught on the thick orange shag Janelle remembered from her childhood. She’d get one of those plastic mats from the office supply store, Janelle thought as her grandmother grunted but finally shoved the chair back far enough to get up. Or better yet, replace the old carpet with something more up-to-date and salable.
“I’m fine,” Nan said in a steely voice.
Against her better judgment, Janelle let go of her arm. When her grandmother sounded like that it was better to do what she said. Janelle stepped out of the way so Nan could get around the table, her slippers shuffling on the carpet, then on the linoleum. She walked slowly, bent, but she seemed steady enough. From the kitchen, the kettle whistled, and Janelle followed Nan to take it off the heat.
“You’ll have plenty of time to get yourself situated.” Nan paused in the hallway, one hand on the basement door frame for support as she turned. “And honey, I’m so glad you’re here. So glad. You’ve been gone such a long time.”
I promise to visit soon, Nan. I promise.
But she never had. The years of phone calls, cards, letters, all the same. Reminding her she had a place here in Nan’s house, that she was always welcome. No matter how far she’d run—dancing as a chorus girl in Las Vegas or selling newlyweds their first town houses in California—Janelle had never been able to leave this place and that year behind. And yet she’d allowed herself to be kept away by what had happened.
“I’m glad, too, Nan.”
It was almost even true.
SIX
FIRST THINGS FIRST. That was the way to go about any set of tasks. One at a time, prioritize, get the work finished.
Or sit in the middle of the complete chaos that was your bedroom, with open packing boxes all over the place, and look at your old yearbook while you listened to records on a player that hadn’t seen the light of day since...well, since she’d left Nan’s house, probably.
Janelle had found the player and the milk crate of records tucked into one of the dormers. They’d belonged to her dad, though she’d made them her own during her year here. Lots of classic rock, punk like the Sex Pistols, some New Wave stuff including Siouxsie and the Banshees. He’d also had an entire shoe box of random 45s he’d bought from some discount store. None of the songs had ever hit the radio, at least not that Janelle had heard, but she’d listened to a few of them over and over back in the day.
“Don’t Get Fooled By The Pander Man,” by Brinkley & Parker. The black record with its orange label spun on the turntable as she flipped the pages of the yearbook she’d found in a box of books she thought she’d left in storage.
Oh, God. Her hair. Her natural color had darkened to a deep auburn over the years from the strawberry-red she’d hated as a kid, and she wore it just past her shoulders with a few layers around her face. Most of the time she pulled it back in a ponytail, low maintenance, wash-and-go. That’s who she’d become. Someone’s mom.
In this picture, she’d not only dyed it black but also cut it asymmetrically so that one side was shoulder length and the other cropped at chin level. She vividly remembered the mornings she’d spent with a curling iron, the barrel the girth of her pinky, and an industrial-size bottle of hair gel. All those hours she’d spent on her hair, her makeup, her clothes...
It seemed so