Grown(64)

In the distance, green water spirals into waves, barreling toward me. I tread for a moment, then kick hard in their direction, before they’re too treacherous, and split them sideways.

The waves foam white as they hit the sandy shore. Nearby, Grandma pops up from under the water.

“Ooo . . . water nippy today. Skin can’t seem to get warm.”

From some angles, Grandma looks like Ursula from The Little Mermaid. A shock of short snow-white hair, skin a tint of purple, a round tummy, and a boisterous laugh, her tentacles everywhere at once, enough to wrangle me and the Littles.

We’re buoyed in silence as another wave forms in the distance. I swim toward it, Grandma on my tail. Even at her old age, Grandma is an excellent swimmer. Taught me everything I know about the unpredictable ocean, its propensity for violence. Those lessons were lost on land.

There are only a few dedicated swimmers and surfers out here. In early June, the water still has a bit of winter’s chill, not the warm bath conditions we have in the summers. The water sinks its icy teeth into us but feels just fine to me.

“So. How long we gonna float out here? Getting late. Think we should head in? Maybe pick up some Popeye’s on the way home? Crispy shrimp?”

The salt water burns the back of my throat. Nearby, a plastic bag floats and I think of the jellyfish. I can almost feel the remnants of his sting, the force of his hit, the rage in his eyes, the ice bucket . . .

I turn, waiting for the next wave.

She chuckles. “I guess not.”

“Just a little while longer,” I finally say.

Don’t know when I’ll be able to do this again.

There’s a rancid smell in Grandma’s apartment that makes it impossible to eat.

As she fixes us hot cocoa in the kitchen, I search for the culprit, digging through boxes of old newspapers, bags of empty plastic bottles, and crates of records piled to the ceiling, blocking the sunset. Behind another set of boxes in the corner is an old empty fish tank. I peer at the horror inside.

“Um, Grandma . . . I think the turtle is dead.”

She scoffs. “No, it’s not, honey. He’s being silly. Come on now, before your cocoa gets cold.”

I draw in a breath, re-covering the tank and cracking a window to air out the suffocating stench. We sit in the dark living room, watching her old box TV with the funny clicker remote. Daddy set up her Amazon fire stick to watch, but she’s committed to basic channels.

Her home has either shrunk or I’ve grown. I always considered this place a castle, but now I see it for what it really is. The clutter, the random articles from the beach she found with her metal detector. Forks, spoons, half-broken jewelry. She was fascinated by humans’ trash. Just like Ariel. It was the perfect house for that hoarder show Shea likes to watch.

How did we all fit in here before?

“Grandma?”

“Yes, honey?”

“What happened when you found out you were sick?”

She laughs. “I’m not sick, baby. That’s the problem. I see things clear as day. It’s everyone else that don’t see what’s right in front of them. People see what they want to see all the time.”

I nod, cooling my cup.

Grandma glances at the chair next to her. “Oh no, she wouldn’t want to do that.”

I look at the empty chair then back to her. “Do what?”

Grandma giggles, waving me off. “Oh nothing, you know they just love your voice, that’s all. They want you to sing.”

The empty chair says nothing.

“Um, sure, Grandma. Why not?”

Grandma nods at the chair. “Ain’t my grandbaby something? Y’all say thank you. Not every day we get a real star in here.”

The crates of old vinyls are covered in two years’ worth of dust.

“OK, you want some Whitney or Aretha?”

“No, we need a classic! We just came from the sea! They want that!”

“Little Mermaid?”

“Yes! That’s the one.”

“OK, Grandma,” I laugh.

I sing “Part of Your World,” which is always fun, singing a cappella, something I haven’t done in a while. My voice is raw, unhinged even. Something about being back here, performing in the place I found my voice feels . . . different.

Grandma sways as she listens, glancing over at the empty seat, nodding in agreement, then claps when I’m done.

“You know why I like that movie?”

“Because you like my singing and know I like to swim?”

“Ha! Well, that too. But no, I liked it ’cause the princess saved herself.”

“No, she didn’t. Eric saved her, the prince. And her dad, the king.”

“No, no,” she laughs, the light from the TV bouncing off her dark skin. “She saved herself from the sea long before that silly prince came flopping along. She took hold of her life, didn’t care what anyone else had to think or say. Even if they thought she was crazy, she did what she wanted, and folks just had to deal. Like when you cut off all your hair. You didn’t care—you just did it! Some brave guts you’ve always had. Get that from my side of the family.”

Grandma sips her hot cocoa, allowing the chocolate milk mustache to sit on her top lip. I glance around the room again, refocusing my lens to what this place used to be. A treasure trove of the most wondrous things.