Everything

Grandma’s house did smell more like burning wood in the spring than it did in the summer, but seated in her kitchen, a cup of warm milk in my hands, it was the scent of baking gingerbread that filled my lungs. When Grandma had announced she was making her famous cookies, Mom had reminded her that it wasn’t Christmas. Grandma Agnes had shrugged and said, “Gingerbread cookies can be for any special occasion, dear. Haven't I taught you anything?”

My mom had let it go. In fact, she’d let everything go and headed upstairs to what would now be her bedroom, one she’d share with her new husband in the house her old husband had grown up in, and Max was outside unloading our furniture into a shed in the back of Grandma’s property. Most of the boxes would go there, too. He said we’d be finding a house of our own soon enough, so they would need their belongings, but for some reason, I didn’t buy it. Unless Max suddenly had the money to build a house on Grandma’s property, or the aptitude to do it himself, I thought we’d probably be staying there for a while. Since I intended to go away to college next year, probably back to Sacramento or elsewhere in California, it didn’t matter as much to me, but Grayson, who was sitting at the table next to me, sipping some coffee, which Grandma had stated seemed inappropriate for her age, would be here for the foreseeable future.

“How was the trip?” Grandma asked as she checked on the progress of her baking men. 

I studied her for a moment. She didn’t look that much older than she had the last time we’d visited. In my mind, I expected her to. It had been a few years, after all. She had long white, grayish hair and always wore a long dress or skirt that hung to her ankles. She was a slight woman, which was surprising since she baked all the time. Her face was still pretty despite the wrinkles, and she had one of those smiles that made you feel like you were the most special person in the world. She wiped her hands on the apron she wore around her waist. She had a million such aprons, but this one, white with red checks in the same shade as her red dress, was one she wore frequently. I remembered it from the last time we’d visited. 

Red was her favorite color. All of the curtains downstairs in the living room, dining area, and kitchen, were red, as were the throw pillows and the rugs that warmed the wooden floors. Upstairs, the four bedrooms had a little more diversity, as did the single bathroom, which was also upstairs, but there were at least accents of red in every room. I hadn’t ever noticed before, but it seemed like red was more than my grandma’s favorite color. It seemed like it was part of her DNA.

“It was okay,” I finally said in response to her question since it was obvious that Gray wasn’t saying anything. 

Grandma sat down at the circular table across the room from the oven where Grayson and I were seated. She had a small smile on her face, and I could tell she was about to tell us how sorry she was that we had to pick up and leave so suddenly. I wished she wouldn’t. It wouldn’t make any difference to Grayson, and I would have to force myself to say something polite in response when I really wanted to demand answers.

“I’m sorry all of this came crashing down upon you two so swiftly,” she said, settling into her chair. There it was--the apology I wished hadn’t happened. She didn’t give me a chance to pretend it was okay, though, or to make some cursory comment about how it wasn’t going to kill us. She kept talking. “I remember when I first came here. I didn’t want to either. But… now it’s my home. I’ve grown to love it, and can’t imagine ever living anywhere else.”

A scoff escaped Grayson’s lips, but I was interested in what Grandma had to say. She had revealed more in those few sentences than I had known about her life before I was born from many years of visiting her home. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Where did you come here from?”

“From Germany, of course,” she said with a little chuckle, as if I should’ve known that. “All of the families settled in Whisper Hollow came from the same village in Germany, dear.”

She said it like I should’ve known. I had no idea. “But you don’t have an accent,” Grayson pointed out.

“No, no, of course I don’t. Not now.” Grandma shook her head, making her long, white hair dance around her shoulders, only slightly stooped from age. How old was our grandmother, anyway? If she had given birth to Dad in her early twenties, like most people did back then, then she could be as young as fifty, but she certainly looked older than that. More like sixty. And she had looked sixty for as long as I could remember.

“When did you come here?” I asked, hoping to keep her talking. I wanted to know more about our family, my father’s family. No one ever talked about him or his past. Maybe Grandma finally would.

“I was about your age,” she said with a nod. “We came across the ocean, on a passenger liner,” she said. My eyes opened wide. Perhaps she was older than I thought. “It was too expensive for all of us to fly. We didn’t bring much with us, but so many people….”

“How many?” Grayson asked.

“Oh, thirty or forty,” she said with a nod. “All of us. The entire village. We all left and came here, to Whisper Hollow, Montana, to start over. I was confused at the time, much like you are, but soon enough, this became my home.”

“Well, at least you got to bring your friends with you,” Grayson muttered.

“That is true,” Grandma said with a nod of her head. “Not that I had many. Just two girls about my age. But that did make it easier. I’m sorry, sweetie. There are other girls here about your age.”

“Where? In the trees?” Gray asked, rolling her eyes.

Grandma sort of nodded her head, as if she were about to confirm what Grayson said was true, or at least partially true. I narrowed my eyes, but Grayson was looking at her coffee mug. Before Grandma could let me know what her nod had meant, the stove began to beep. “That’s my men,” she said with a little chuckle and then hopped up spryly to cross to the stove.

I wanted to say something to my sister to make her feel better, but I didn’t have the words. Instead, I reached over and put my hand on her arm as Grandma pulled two trays of gingerbread cookies out and placed them on cooling racks. “It’ll be okay, Gray” I whispered.

“No, it won’t,” she countered. “None of us wants to be here, not even Mom. Definitely not Max. Why are we here, Harlow? Why?”

I didn’t have an answer for her, but I wanted one as much as she did. When Grandma was finished with the cookies, she reclaimed her seat and took a sip of whatever was in her cup. I thought it might be milk and not coffee but couldn’t be sure. I didn’t particularly care for warm milk at all, especially when I wasn’t planning on sleeping, but Grandma had given it to me in an attempt to make me feel “more cozy” so I had taken it. Now, I wished I had some coffee myself, or something with caffeine, so that I could muster up the courage to interrogate my grandma.

It turned out not to be necessary. When Gray demanded, “Why are we here, Grandma? Why won’t anyone tell us what’s going on?” my grandma stared at her for a moment and then looked at me.

“You don’t know anything at all, do you?” she asked, her German accent more noticeable than it had ever been before.

“No, nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Only that, when we got home from school, the day before yesterday, there were movers out front of our house.”

“And… what happened the day before?” 

My forehead crinkled as I tried to remember. Had there been anything particularly of interest that day? There hadn’t even been anything of interest for my birthday, so why would there be anything worth remembering from the day before that.

But Grayson remembered. “The wolves,” she said quietly, looking from Grandma to me. “The wolves, Harlow. Remember?”

Suddenly, I did remember. It was the first time I had given it much thought. “Yeah, sure. I remember,” I said with a shrug. “But why would that have anything to do with anything?” 

Before Grayson could give it a guess, my grandmother’s voice drew both of our heads around to look at her. In an eerie voice I hadn’t ever heard from her before, she said, “Wolves have everything to do with everything.”