I'm Glad My Mom Died(61)

Now that I’ve got my Whole Foods plan and my anorexia mission, I’m feeling motivation that I haven’t felt since Mom died. Sure, most things are out of my control. Losing people I love, being on a show I’m ashamed of, directing jobs being pulled from me—but this? This I can control.

I push my cart a bit farther down the aisle and pick up some black bean hamburger patties: 180 calories a patty, and 5 grams of fat. I place this delicate angel of a food into my cart with great reverence since it is on my side. Helping my mission.

I push my cart forward. My phone starts ringing. Grandma.

I’ve never much liked my grandma. As a toddler, I hated the way she stroked my back and ran her hands through my hair. It was like she didn’t know how to touch from a nurturing, comforting place, she only knew how to touch from a seductive place. It disgusted me.

When I was growing up, Grandma’s favorite hobbies were gossiping on the phone and getting perms and complaining. Her feet hurt, her shirt’s too tight, her perm’s not the right color, Louise never called back, Grandpa’s not home from work early enough, gas is too expensive, Souplantation took cornbread off the menu.

It’s not just that she’s a bitter old woman dryly airing her grievances with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, which would be funny at least. She’s always teary-eyed, always wailing, always making her problems everybody else’s.

For all these reasons, I don’t like or respect her. And I don’t think she likes me much either, but she would never admit that because she’s too busy crying about me not liking her.

Since Mom died, I’ve tried to work on our relationship a bit. I’ll try to text her back when I can, I’ll call her every few days, and I’ll send her an email once a week. There is way more maintenance to this relationship than I would like, and even so, it’s not nearly enough for her, which I’m told every time we do talk.

I’m emotionally spent, but I keep giving to this relationship because I don’t want to be a dick and cut off my daughterless grandmother.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket. I head down the aisle and find some frozen vegetables. Pull out a bag and set it in my cart. My phone starts ringing again.

Grandma.

I text her: I’ll call you in a minute.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket, this time with some irritation, and head to the produce section. I grab a bag of pink lady apples, some carrot sticks, and a coconut that I’m not sure what to do with but it looks nice so why not.

She calls again. I want to throw my phone. Instead I answer it, leaving a hint of irritation in my delivery so Grandma can tell I’m annoyed.

“Grandma, can I call you when I’m home? I’m getting groceries.”

She’s wailing. She says something, but it’s indiscernible through the wails. I’m concerned. I ask if everything’s all right. She keeps wailing. I ask again.

“You… you… You never call meeeeeeee!” she finally gets out.

Every time she calls wailing, I assume it’s because Grandpa died. His health is rapidly declining. I know she knows I jump to this conclusion because I’ve told her before. I’ve asked her if she can try to taper her screaming and crying. Every time I tell her this, she assures me she’ll never do it again. She does it every time.

I tell her sternly that I’ll call her back when I get home, then hang up my phone. It starts ringing again. By now it’s not only me that’s stressed, but the makeup-less yogi with the hemp tunic who’s shopping in front of me. I envy her glass skin. She eyes me. I’m embarrassed.

Grandma calls again. I give up. I leave my grocery cart where it is and head out of the store. Glass Skin looks pleased. I wonder if I should try microneedling.

I cross the parking lot, and in the time since I’ve been in the store, a thunderstorm has started. One of the rare annual LA thunderstorms. Typically, I avoid driving in the rain because I don’t like driving to begin with, let alone when there’s rain involved. I get in my Mini Cooper and just as I turn on the engine and my windshield wipers, she starts calling again. It’s hooked up to Bluetooth, so her voice blares through the speakers. She’s still wailing.

“Grandma,” I say evenly, trying to calm her down. She’s hysterical. She blubbers through some speech about me hanging up on her. I pull out of the parking lot and take a right, heading down the main street that leads to my home.

“Grandma,” I say again, as evenly as I can even though my face is growing hot with anger. “I was getting groceries. We’re on the phone now. Why’d you call?”

Her tears turn to venom immediately.

“No need to get nasty with me, bitch.”

My grandma frequently refers to me as “bitch.” She always throws a little extra salt on the word too, for effect.

“Grandma, like I’ve said before, if you keep calling me names and guilting me every time we get on the phone, I’m gonna block you.”

“Don’t threaten me, little girl.”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you a fact.”

“I’m telling a fact,” Grandma repeats, mocking my voice. “All my other grandkids call me way more than you do,” Grandma complains.

“How are you?”

“How do you think I am, huh? Did you hear anything I’ve just said? You don’t treat me well. Your mother must be rolling in her grave.”