Right Kind of Wrong
1
Jenna
“Look at you. Being all in love like a grown-up. I’m so proud,” I say, smiling at my best friend, Pixie, as we carry boxes into our joint dorm room. “And Levi,” I add, turning to address Pixie’s hot new piece of arm candy, “you’re welcome.”
He sets a box down. “Am I now?”
I nod. “If it weren’t for me telling Pixie to suck up her fears and just let herself love you, you’d still be a miserable handyman.”
“I am still a handyman.”
“Ah, but you’re no longer a miserable one.” I grin. “Thanks to me.”
He pulls Pixie into his arms and kisses her temple. “Then I guess I should thank you.”
As they start kissing, my phone rings and I’m relieved for an excuse to leave them to all their lovebirding.
I slip out into the hall and close the door before answering my cell.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jenna.” The sound of my mom’s voice makes me smile. “How’s my baby?”
“I’m good,” I say. “Pixie and I are almost all moved in. She came down here with her boyfriend tonight so we were able to get mostly unpacked. I just have a few more boxes left at the apartment, but I’m going to pick those up later. How are you?”
She pauses. “Well I’m okay.”
It’s the way she emphasizes the “I’m” that tells me exactly what this phone call is about.
“Grandma?” I sigh in exasperation. “Again?”
“I’m afraid so. She says she can feel the end coming close.”
I sigh. “Mom. She’s been saying she’s dying for ten years and she’s never even had a cough.”
“I know, but she seems serious this time,” Mom says.
Every few years or so, my grandmother announces to the family that she’s going to kick the bucket at any given moment. The first two times it happened, I immediately flew back to New Orleans—where she lives with my mother and younger sisters in the house I grew up in—to be by her side, only to find Granny alive and well without so much as a sniffle. The last time it happened, I took a few days to get organized before flying back to New Orleans, where I found my “dying” grandmother singing karaoke at a local bar.
So as you can imagine, I’m not falling for her silly shenanigans this time.
“No way,” I say. “I’m not spending my hard-earned money to fly out there again just so Grandma can get on my case about love and fate while belting out a verse of ‘Black Velvet.’ Tell her that I’ll come visit when she has a doctor’s note stating that she’s at death’s door.”
“Oh, Jenna. Don’t be so dramatic. I swear you’re just as bad as your grandmother.”
“I know,” I say, in mock frustration. “And it’s getting hard to compete for the title of Family Drama Queen with Granny declaring her impending death every two years. Could you tell her to just give it up already and let me be the shining star?”
I can hear the disapproval in my mother’s voice. “That’s not funny, Jenna.”
“Sure it is.” I smile. “And Grandma would agree.”
“Please be serious about this,” she says.
“I’ll be serious about Grandma’s death when she gets serious about dying,” I quip.
A weary sigh feathers through the line. “Jenna, please.”
“Why do we keep pandering to her, anyway? The only reason she keeps crying death is because she knows we’ll all come running to her karaoke-singing side to hold her hand as she passes—which she never does. Why do we keep playing her game?”
“Because she’s very superstitious and believes dying without the blessing of her family members is bad luck for the afterlife. You know that.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh.
I do know that. All too well. Since I was a child, the deep roots of Grandma’s superstitions have wrapped their gnarled fingers around my family’s every move. If her Voodoo notions weren’t so eerily accurate and, well, creepy, maybe we’d be able to ignore the old woman’s ways.
But unfortunately, Grams has a tendency to correctly predict future events and know exactly what someone’s intentions or motivations are just by shaking their hand. It’s downright spooky. And I swear the old woman uses our fear of her psychic powers as a tool of manipulation.
Case in point? Her recurring death threats.
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “She deserves a pleasant send-off. I know.”
I hear my mother inhale through her nose. “She does. But even if that weren’t the case, your grandmother isn’t feeling well and she’d like to see you. Again.” When I don’t say anything she adds, “And wouldn’t you feel horrible if she was right this time and you missed your chance to say good-bye?”
Jenna
“Look at you. Being all in love like a grown-up. I’m so proud,” I say, smiling at my best friend, Pixie, as we carry boxes into our joint dorm room. “And Levi,” I add, turning to address Pixie’s hot new piece of arm candy, “you’re welcome.”
He sets a box down. “Am I now?”
I nod. “If it weren’t for me telling Pixie to suck up her fears and just let herself love you, you’d still be a miserable handyman.”
“I am still a handyman.”
“Ah, but you’re no longer a miserable one.” I grin. “Thanks to me.”
He pulls Pixie into his arms and kisses her temple. “Then I guess I should thank you.”
As they start kissing, my phone rings and I’m relieved for an excuse to leave them to all their lovebirding.
I slip out into the hall and close the door before answering my cell.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jenna.” The sound of my mom’s voice makes me smile. “How’s my baby?”
“I’m good,” I say. “Pixie and I are almost all moved in. She came down here with her boyfriend tonight so we were able to get mostly unpacked. I just have a few more boxes left at the apartment, but I’m going to pick those up later. How are you?”
She pauses. “Well I’m okay.”
It’s the way she emphasizes the “I’m” that tells me exactly what this phone call is about.
“Grandma?” I sigh in exasperation. “Again?”
“I’m afraid so. She says she can feel the end coming close.”
I sigh. “Mom. She’s been saying she’s dying for ten years and she’s never even had a cough.”
“I know, but she seems serious this time,” Mom says.
Every few years or so, my grandmother announces to the family that she’s going to kick the bucket at any given moment. The first two times it happened, I immediately flew back to New Orleans—where she lives with my mother and younger sisters in the house I grew up in—to be by her side, only to find Granny alive and well without so much as a sniffle. The last time it happened, I took a few days to get organized before flying back to New Orleans, where I found my “dying” grandmother singing karaoke at a local bar.
So as you can imagine, I’m not falling for her silly shenanigans this time.
“No way,” I say. “I’m not spending my hard-earned money to fly out there again just so Grandma can get on my case about love and fate while belting out a verse of ‘Black Velvet.’ Tell her that I’ll come visit when she has a doctor’s note stating that she’s at death’s door.”
“Oh, Jenna. Don’t be so dramatic. I swear you’re just as bad as your grandmother.”
“I know,” I say, in mock frustration. “And it’s getting hard to compete for the title of Family Drama Queen with Granny declaring her impending death every two years. Could you tell her to just give it up already and let me be the shining star?”
I can hear the disapproval in my mother’s voice. “That’s not funny, Jenna.”
“Sure it is.” I smile. “And Grandma would agree.”
“Please be serious about this,” she says.
“I’ll be serious about Grandma’s death when she gets serious about dying,” I quip.
A weary sigh feathers through the line. “Jenna, please.”
“Why do we keep pandering to her, anyway? The only reason she keeps crying death is because she knows we’ll all come running to her karaoke-singing side to hold her hand as she passes—which she never does. Why do we keep playing her game?”
“Because she’s very superstitious and believes dying without the blessing of her family members is bad luck for the afterlife. You know that.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh.
I do know that. All too well. Since I was a child, the deep roots of Grandma’s superstitions have wrapped their gnarled fingers around my family’s every move. If her Voodoo notions weren’t so eerily accurate and, well, creepy, maybe we’d be able to ignore the old woman’s ways.
But unfortunately, Grams has a tendency to correctly predict future events and know exactly what someone’s intentions or motivations are just by shaking their hand. It’s downright spooky. And I swear the old woman uses our fear of her psychic powers as a tool of manipulation.
Case in point? Her recurring death threats.
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “She deserves a pleasant send-off. I know.”
I hear my mother inhale through her nose. “She does. But even if that weren’t the case, your grandmother isn’t feeling well and she’d like to see you. Again.” When I don’t say anything she adds, “And wouldn’t you feel horrible if she was right this time and you missed your chance to say good-bye?”