She Called Me Grandma

By Ann Summerville

Gone -- flitted away,
Taken the stars from the night and the sun
From the day!
Gone, and a cloud in my heart.
~Alfred Tennyson

As I stare at the silver-framed picture another tear falls from my eye. Like a bright shining star the little girl came into our lives -- a four-year-old daughter my son-in-law didn't know he had. Our family greeted her with open arms and we quickly settled into bi-weekly visits. Dates were marked on a calendar and we waited for her arrival with anticipation.

One weekend, we sat in a chair huddled against each other while I read a story -- a story of a princess -- and my heart skipped a beat when she called me Grandma for the first time.

At the grocery store, I gathered gummy snacks with Barbie pictures on the box, rainbow-colored cereal and coloring books. As in a dream, our lives changed instantly.

I study the smiling face from the picture and can hear laughter in my mind. Brown eyes look back at me -- kind eyes like her dad's. She looks sedate, but the first pictures taken were of exaggerated poses, a scrunched-up face and clawing hands when she imitated a monster and finally the face with childlike innocence that I look at now. Sparkling lights twinkle from the Christmas tree behind her. The purple velvet dress with an apple green sash reminds me of the Nutcracker ballet we went to that day.

Newly married, my daughter and son-in-law knew the mother only wanted money but they battled for consistent visitation. They fought through the unyielding legal system and became frustrated when their voices were not heard. The excuses came early. She was sick, she was visiting an aunt, she simply couldn't come. The court order meant nothing -- the judge ignored the mother's actions. "Contempt" was a written word of no consequence, and the battle continued.

While ordering the cake for her fifth birthday I waited anxiously. I gripped the phone in my hand and wondered if the mother would show up at the pick-up point with my granddaughter. The phone rang.

"We've got her," said my daughter.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I bought the cake and picked out helium balloons. It was months before we found out where she really lived. On that happy birthday, she quickly discarded her shorts, pulled on a lavender dress with flowing tulle, donned a crown and clipped on pink, heart-shaped earrings. She pranced around the room in plastic slippers with a Disney princess pictured on the strap. Her friends and cousins surrounded her when she pulled off a pink plastic sheet to reveal a dollhouse taller than she.

"This is the best birthday of my whole life," she said.

Each weekend she entertained us. She chased her friends and cousins, splashed in a wading pool and played board games with her dad. Her happiness and sense of humor were infectious. We laughed as she painted a picture of her Barbie doll -- a picture of exaggerated features with thick black eyelashes, a small body and wide skirt. She painted the face with a mixture of white and red and called the color "valilla."

Wearing a fringed skirt and red cowboy hat she rode on a metal horse at the Cowgirl Museum, painted pumpkins for Halloween, climbed on an alligator statue at the zoo and made a gingerbread house before Christmas. We took her to the Nutcracker, where her eyes grew large as she watched the ballerinas. During the intermission she kicked off her sparkled shoes and twirled in the carpeted foyer -- her black tights wrinkled around slender ankles. She jumped and pointed her toes, leaping across the pale green carpet. At the end of the last scene she slumped her head onto her dad's lap and, like the ballerina, fell asleep. If only the dream had lasted.

We decorated her bedroom and made pink, polka dot curtains, painted furniture and stacked the shelves with Disney movies and books. The toy box overflowed. The last weekend I saw her, she was running up and down the stairs with a green and red stuffed parrot bouncing on her shoulder and a black pirate hat on her head. Behind her were friends and cousins wearing eye patches and similar hats. They wielded plastic swords and orchestrated mock battles in the hallway. If we had only known that her mom was already living in a different town, and preparing to move to another state, we would have held her tighter, whispered "I love you" more times, and been reluctant to let her go. Alas, we found out too late that she would be gone from our lives. The laughter echoes in our minds but the room with the polka dot curtains is empty. There will be no more bouncing on the bed, using her Barbie doll as a microphone, no more little hands moving furniture in the doll house and no more running down the stairs calling "Grandma" as she runs into my arms.


Today I hear the husky voice of my daughter. We tell each other she will find us one day as we layer her toys and her favorite purple dress in a box. On top is a picture book of the Nutcracker. We hope that if she returns, the contents will trigger memories of the happy times spent with us. We each wrote letters, letting her know how much we love her and we shed more tears than we knew were possible. The letters are tucked into the keepsake box.

Maybe one day my daughter will have children. Meanwhile, my arms are empty but I will remember that smile and the word that gave me so much joy -- "Grandma."

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