It was a Sunday evening in April, and I was alone in my room setting out my clothes for school the next day. It was a habit I was forming, since it meant that there would be less fussing with Mom about what I would wear in the morning. If I already laid out the night before, it meant she wouldn’t force me to change into what she felt was more appropriate. Though to be fair, she wouldn’t disapprove of the yellow pleated skirt I was settling on.
While I still made sure to wear a dress to the sessions with Dr. Walters – which were thankfully down to check-ins every two months – I had recently opted to wear them of my own volition. I actually found them to be less itchy than pants, so they made it into rotation when it wasn’t too cold out. Plus, I just liked how the plaid skirt looked on me; it was a classic style far removed from the frizzy 90s look girls sported.
I was holding the skirt in front of me and admiring it, when there was a light knock on the door. Without waiting for my permission, Mom stepped through the doorway and into my room.
“Hey, sweetheart. Oh, are you going with that skirt for tomorrow? I think that’s a very good choice.”
Facing away from her, she didn’t see the look of annoyance on my face. “No, not this one,” I casually stated, as I tucked it back into my dresser drawer. “I think I’m going with jeans.”
I could hear Mom inhale sharply, but she didn’t argue. This time. “Maya, I wanted to talk to you about Spring Break next week.”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled. I was looking forward to having a week off of school; I had managed to navigate the public library and get a copy of Options as a Strategic Investment sent to my local branch. It was a massive one-thousand page brick of text, and I was looking forward to paging through it over the course of the break. But Mom had that tone in her voice that suggested she had made plans on my behalf. As usual.
“I just got off the phone with Grandma Lola. You’ll be staying with her over the break.”
Lola Brown was my father’s mother who had lived in a small township in rural Wisconsin her entire life. She was the matriarch of the family; a widow who had raised five children alone in the same farmhouse Dad grew up in. She had a reputation for being small, sharp, and immovable. Through grit and determination, she made sure her family not only survived, but thrived.
As her children grew up and had families of their own, the family galvanized around her for decades. It was sort of a rite of passage for the girls in my family, such as my sister Jane when she was old enough, who would spend summers in her little yellow house with her army of cats. It’s not that Grandma Lola didn’t like boys---she always said that she liked boys too much and it got her into trouble---but Matthew was never extended the invitation.
“I’m going to Grandma Lola’s for the break? Why?”
“I was on the phone with her,” she smiled, “and we were talking and she said that she would like to see you. She said it’s your turn to stay with her. It’ll be good for you.”
“I’ve never stayed with Grandma before, why now?” I knew the answer as soon as the words left my mouth.
“Well, you are her granddaughter, after all. And she wants to get to know the ‘new you’ since I told her that you were very comfortable…as yourself.”
“Great,” I groaned, throwing a pair of jeans onto my bed. “You mean because I’m a girl, I have to go stay with her and her houseful of cats.”
“Don’t say it like that. She just wants to spend some time with you. And don’t pout like that, young lady. You’ll have a great time!”
***
About a week later Dad and I drove over the state line and into the vast and unremarkable Wisconsin countryside. Dad lived the farthest away of all of Grandma’s children, since the chemical plants he worked at were in the Twin Cities. Grandma Lola was waving to us from her rickety porch as we pulled into the driveway.
Grandma Lola was a thin woman with a short curl of gray hair and square glasses. Dad immediately greeted her with a warm hug as I reluctantly trudged through the April mud to the front door. I stood back a moment as she fawned over her youngest son, and quickly Dad dashed back to the car to get my suitcase.
“Maya, dear,” she said in her wispy, yet firm, Wisconsin accent. “I’m so happy you’re staying with me this week,” she said, leaning forward and giving me a hug.
“Hi, Grandma Lola,” I intoned into her red wool pullover.
She took my cheeks into her hands. “Oh my, you’ve become such a pretty young lady. And I’m glad to see you’re wearing a dress. It looks darling on you. And your hair has gotten so long!”
She ran her fingers through my hair. Mom had always refused to have it cut, and it was now almost brushing my shoulders. I had to admit that having hair again was one aspect of being a girl I liked. In my old life my hair began thinning in my early thirties. It was a comfort to know that male pattern baldness wouldn’t affect me now.
“Come,” she said, taking my hand. “Let’s get out of the cold.”
Dad followed us inside with my luggage, which he passed off to me as Grandma and he began chatting. The house was clearly the home of a fastidious old woman; the kitchen was coral green and organized, which led into a sitting room splashed with doilies and little glass and porcelain figures in cabinets. Grandma Lola’s room was off to one side, and the guest room which I would be occupying was next to hers, down a short hall.
The guest room was all laid out for me, with the bed freshly made and a toothbrush on the cedar nightstand, in case I had forgotten mine (which I hadn’t). I shooed one of Grandma’s cats from my bed, and started unpacking. Once I finished, I rejoined Grandma Lola and Dad in the kitchen. Grandma was reading off of a notepad to Dad.
“...the sink pipes in the bathroom are a little loose,” she recited from the page, “and one of the bulbs is out in the pantry. I think that’s everything on the list. That would be very helpful, David.”
“Not a problem at all, Mom,” happily receiving his orders. “I’ll handle it all before I head back to Minnesota.”
“Wonderful. Maya and I will make you a late lunch while you take care of all that,” she said, rising to her feet.
“I don’t really cook, Grandma.”
I saw Dad’s eyes bulge; to refuse a task given by Grandma was unconscionable. However, she smiled sweetly at me.
“Of course you won’t, dear. You’ll just be helping me out. Come, put on one of the aprons behind the door while your father does his jobs.”
Minutes later I stood in Grandma’s pantry, a frilled apron wrapped around me, as she rummaged through her shelves. She handed me a few items – a can of cream of mushroom soup, some macaroni noodles, and some green beans among others – then made a few notes on a shopping list hanging on the door. I could hear Dad in the bathroom clanging on some pipes as Grandma set about making her beef and macaroni hotdish. She made sure I paid close attention as I reluctantly assisted.
The sun was shining low through the window into the kitchen while we ate the hearty meal we prepared, with Grandma praising me to Dad about the good job I did helping her. In all fairness, it wasn’t as if stirring bowls and mixing vegetables was difficult. Dad finished his tall glass of milk before hugging Grandma and me – with a reminder to be helpful this week – and headed out to the car for the long drive home. I wished I was going with him as Grandma and I waved from the porch, already dreading the week.
***
Grandma Lola was already awake and dressed by the time I crawled out of bed the next morning, and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes I saw that she was hard at work preparing pancakes and bacon. She sipped her coffee while I tore apart the pancakes, which were thin and rich – just how I liked them. They even had real maple syrup and a load of Wisconsin butter on top. Even the bacon was perfectly cooked, and before I knew if I had devoured everything.
“So what are we going to do today?” I asked through a mouthful of pancakes.
“Well, why don’t you get dressed and we can think of something to do around the house.”
I raised my eyebrow. “If we’re staying at home, why do I need to get out of my pajamas?”
Grandma Lola quietly took a sip of her coffee, choosing not to respond. The silence was thunderous, and before I knew it I was clearing my plate and walking back to the guest room. After slipping on a white sweater and a skirt, I migrated out to the sitting room sofa and stared up at the ceiling disconsolately. My eyes wandered around the miniature cat figurines and family photos scattered about the room. I noticed something in the corner, however, underneath a tarp and a few plants. I saw what looked like foot pedals peeking out of the bottom. Curious, I peeked underneath, seeing familiar white and black keys.
“I see you found my old upright piano,” said Grandma Lola coming into the room.
“I didn’t know you played music,” I said honestly. I didn’t think anyone in my family had musical ability.
“I used to give piano lessons, after your grandfather died. It wasn’t much, but more often than not it meant the difference between square meals and nothing.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of what she casually mentioned. She pulled back the covering on the keys, and I idly tapped out one of the chord progressions I learned from my scant piano lessons.
“Oh, do you play?”
I shook my head. “Not the piano. Mom and Dad got me music lessons for Christmas, but it wasn’t what I asked for.”
She tilted her head. “What did you ask for?”
I shrugged. “A guitar. But Mom said it wasn’t ‘appropriate for girls.’ So instead, they got me a kid’s keyboard.”
I looked up at Grandma Lola, who had a curious look on her face as she tapped her finger to her lips. Just like I always did when I was pondering something.
“Stay right here a moment, Maya,” she said as she ducked into her bedroom.
I glumly tapped a few more of the fingering exercises on the keyboard. I never really practiced on my keyboard at home anymore, since my heart wasn’t in it in the first place. I heard scuffling from the other room. It sounded as if Grandma was moving boxes or furniture around, and eventually she emerged back into the living room with something in her hands.
She was carrying a worn, dusty guitar case.
“I played the guitar, you know,” she said as she carefully set the case on the coffee table. “Every week when I taught Sunday school.”
When she opened the hard case, it revealed a slightly weathered but functional acoustic guitar. I couldn’t help but gawk; it was a mahogany Gibson Banner LG-1 – no, an LG-2 judging by the X-bracing. Even in the 90s they were considered vintage and solid. In my former life they sold for thousands, especially in this condition. I leaned in closer before she nudged me to sit back down.
Grandma Lola lifted the instrument and carefully placed the strap over my shoulder before hurrying into the bedroom again. It rested heavily on my lap, slightly too big for me. LG-2s were smaller guitars than what I was used to, but then again so was I. I looked down the edge of the fretboard toward the headstock to check for warping, and didn’t notice any cracking in the body. I plucked the strings to check the tone, noting that it had been stored exceptionally well. Grandma came back with folders of sheet books as she caught me adjusting the pitch.
“You’ve played before, it seems,” as she regarded how I twisted the tuning pegs.
“A little bit.”
“How about this,” she said, setting down the sheet music. “I’ll make us some tea and cookies, and you can go through these sheet books to see if there’s any songs you recognize.”
I eagerly started digging through her books. I ignored all of the religious ones, which happened to be the majority of them. There weren’t any rock songs, to my disappointment, but there were several folk songs, and one I settled on in particular spoke to me. I stared at it intently as Grandma returned with two cups, a steaming pot, and a plate of ginger snaps.
“Let’s see what you know, dear. First, though, rest the waist of the guitar on your left leg and not your right. And keep your thumb on the back of the neck; your fingers won’t reach if you palm it.”
I nodded, and after taking a deep breath I strummed the opening notes to “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” by Hank Williams Sr.
I could feel right away that muscle memory was failing me. Not only did I have to hold the guitar differently than I remembered, but the tips of my fingers had clearly never touched guitar strings. I knew the lyrics by heart, but I was never a particularly good singer even in my former life. Still, my voice quivered as I coordinated the fingerwork and the words. It slowly became easier, and the last stanza flowed out of me as easily as the tears wetted my eyelashes.
The silence of a falling star,
Lights up a purple sky.
And as I wonder where you are,
I’m so lonesome I could cry.
As I finished the last notes, I stared at my feet, embarrassed. I didn’t usually play with anyone else in the room, and I knew it sounded rough and sentimental. But when I raised my head I saw Grandma Lola looking into my eyes, with a sad smile and sympathy. She placed her hand on my knee.
“Maya, that was lovely. You played beautifully.”
I sucked in my lip, quickly wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “Thank you,” I croaked.
“Here,” she said, standing and pulling the strap from my shoulder. “Now I want to play a song for you.”
I nodded as she placed the guitar on her lap, plucking a few strings. She didn’t glance at any sheet music, instead simply looking directly at me. Perhaps directly into me. I recognized the Neil Diamond song as soon as she started strumming.
Song sung blue, everybody knows one.
Song sung blue, every garden grows one.
Me and you
Are subject to
The blues now and then.
And when you take the blues and make a song
You sing them out again.
I smiled weakly as she continued her song as she sang to me, appreciating what she was trying to do. The tender lyrics hinted something that I hadn’t quite felt in a long time. Something shifted within me as I listened to this gentle lady singing a melancholy tune. I was just a granddaughter being softly comforted by her grandmother. It was nice.
The next few days were quiet, but there was a weight lifted from me in the solitude of a little yellow house in Wisconsin. Grandma Lola never fussed over what I decided to wear for the day, just as long as I didn’t laze about in my pajamas. I ended up not even taking out the pants I brought with me from my suitcase. I’d spend the mornings helping her around the house, with Grandma encouraging me and imparting bits of advice here and there. I still wasn’t fond of the kitchen, but at least it wasn’t intimidating.
The afternoons and evenings were filled with music. I learned quickly that the years of playing in my head didn’t match the lack of calluses in my fingertips, and it was tricky adjusting my posture and grip to a guitar to this new body of mine. Grandma gave me the same encouragement she did in the kitchen, but noted I was far more at ease with a guitar in my lap than an apron. We burned through most of the sheet music she had, and after I was used to my new posture I started improvising and tinkering with songs that hadn’t been invented yet. Little did Grandma know she was the first human to ever hear Radiohead performed live.
At night, when we ran out of steam or my fingers ached too much, we pulled out a cribbage board in the sitting room. One of her black cats decided to park himself in my lap as we played and Grandma told me stories about her life. She would also ask me questions; questions no one had bothered asking me since I awoke in the past.
“I don’t mean to pry, Maya,” said Grandma as she skunked me once again. “But how do you feel about not being Matthew anymore?”
I wasn’t expecting her to ask me about my transformation. These days, I didn’t dwell as much on my circumstances. It only happened if someone reminded me or something triggered me. It always made me feel awkward or terrified when I reflected too much on the decades of my previous timeline. Not to mention that I privately knew what the future held, having lived through the 90s before.
“I’m getting used to it,” I answered quietly. “Most of the time I try not to think about it.”
“Do you like being a girl?”
I was quiet for a moment. “It’s fine,” I eventually answered. “But I hate everyone telling me how to do it. No one listens to me; they just tell me what to do. They don’t even give me a chance to figure it out for myself.”
“I think I understand,” responded Grandma. “It’s difficult to think about the future when there’s so much change.”
“I think about the future a lot.”
“Does it worry you, the future?” Grandma asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess I just don’t know what I should be doing. I have a lot of opportunities and things I want to do, but I just don’t know where to start sometimes.”
Grandma nodded thoughtfully. “Remember when we were making the cookies the other day? We took out the recipe and worked our way through it. That’s the best way to go when you’re not sure about what to do. You make a list, and do the work. Step by step.”
“What if…you do know the future?” I asked cautiously.
“No one knows the future, Maya.”
“But let’s say you do. Maybe you have a really good idea about what is going to happen.”
Grandma shrugged. “Then you do the same thing; you still make that list. You organize yourself as much as you can, and do it one step at a time. That’s how things get done. That’s the only way you can keep control.”
I pondered for a moment; her advice was elegant in its simplicity. I hadn’t thought of planning things out; I’d just been in survival mode as I bumbled through this new life of mine. Desperately grasping at familiar remnants of my old life as this new one consumed me. My life may be on a completely different trajectory, but there were certainly some constants out there that I could plan around. I was still me, even if I wasn’t me. I was mired in thought as we stroked our respective cats, and I continued to think as deeply when Grandma tucked me in bed.
The next day Dad arrived to bring me back to Minnesota. Before he arrived, Grandma made yet another amazing stack of pancakes and we did one last round of music together; she on the piano and me on the guitar. My things were all ready to go by the time Dad pulled in.
“Maya, I am so glad we were able to spend some time together,” she said as she hugged me in the entryway. “You’re a wonderful girl, and I hope you come to stay with me again soon!”
“I hope so too,” I answered honestly.
We made a final wave to Grandma Lola from the car, who stood next to her mailbox waving as we drove away. Dad asked me questions about my week, and while I answered for the sake of conversation, I mostly stared out the window at the barren trees passing by the highway which were showing the first signs of spring.
When we arrived home, Mom and Tim greeted me at the door as I hauled my suitcase in with me. Mom gave me a big hug once I was inside.
“Maya, you look so…relaxed! Did you have a good time with Grandma Lola?”
“Actually…I really did. I’m sorry I was such a pain about going there.”
Mom smiled, placing an affectionate hand on my cheek. “Oh sweetie, it’s fine. Now, where is your father?”
“He’s getting the rest of my stuff for me.”
Mom raised her eyebrow, and glanced down at the suitcase at my feet. “The rest of your stuff?”
It was at that moment that the front door opened again, as Dad entered, struggling to keep the door open as he maneuvered the cargo in his hands awkwardly.
He was carrying my newly-gifted Gibson LG-2.