Run Gran Run
Through My Gran's Eyes
I was too far into my memories to detect the emptiness of the wooden house; the silence that fell to the pigeons perched on the branches of the mango tree outside.
The rocking chair, with its comforting creaks, grew quiet behind me, and the warm sensation that permeated my body and relaxed my soul vanished the moment my surroundings came into focus. Then it hit me with the sharp crack of a cricket bat against my chest. It struck me like a crashing almond to the head; shockingly hard.
As if out of spite, the crippling emotions I tried to lock away for the past year after my grandmother’s death hurdled free. An agonizing pain bloomed in my chest and left me gasping. Tears pushed their way through, reminiscent of Annadale Falls after a hurricane.
“De pain go get betta wid time,” people said.
That was difficult to believe, considering this heartache matched, if not surpassed, what engulfed me on the day of her death.
With a sigh, my shivering hand took another multi-colored frock from my grandma’s closet, folded it as if she would return to inspect it, and placed it into the duffel bag with the others. My body endured while my mind conjured Gran; her boisterous laughter and her words, honeyed and soft, “Ur alright, chile,” echoed in my ears.
Adrenaline shot through me as my chest tingled. I crumbled Gran’s headscarf to my face, its oil blend infused in my nostrils, and screamed as the onset of another attack swelled.
At first, years of practiced therapy techniques eluded me, but I forced myself to focus on the olive wood rosary, following the beads to the cross hanging on the bedhead. Though the beach was a fifteen-minute walk from Gran’s mountainside home, I smelled the salty air, felt the stinging warmth of the sun, and the fine granules in the gentle sea breeze. Then my body relaxed.
When I opened my eyes, my gaze fell on the dresser drawer. Its surface was far too faded and bruised to donate, but held so many memories to throw away. It was the same with the small round table where my grandma calculated her bills and the kerosene lamp she kept for when the electricity went out.
I inhaled and exhaled, more focused on completing my task.
Gran wouldn’t want me broken. She wouldn’t want my suffering to diminish the joy of her years nurturing me, like one of my earliest memories where I clung to her side. My feet were tight around her waist as I gazed at the wrinkles, the gray kinks, aware of the warm flutter and calmness she induced.
I was five years old then and adopted her as my mother.
When I was about eight, I suffered during a red mombin plum harvest from our backyard tree. I wanted to sink my teeth into that yellowish flesh and ignored the fact that I had inherited my biological mother’s height.
“Damn, Teresa.”
I thought I was being careful as I climbed, making crablike movements outwards and onto a narrowing branch. Then, the cracking reached my ears, and the idea clicked into place, but it was too late. The branch snapped, and I plummeted as I would at Leaper’s Hill.
The pain didn’t come instantly, but when I tried to get up, it tore through my arm and settled at my elbow as I wailed. I didn’t think of my mother first. She always directed me towards my grandmother, so that’s who I called.
My wait was brief.
Grandma heard my screams and sprinted towards me, covered in flour with her eyebrows drawn together, equipped with a rolling pin.
“Super Gran to de rescue,” I thought.
When she came to my side, I pointed a shaking finger at my throbbing hand. My chosen mother kneeled beside me, tending to my injury, as coconut oil wafted in the air. That’s when the kitchen curtain glided across the rod, revealing a frowning face before hiding her once more.
Even while I suffered, my mother maintained the frigid distance she had established at my birth. She held that sneer, that dismissiveness, and refused to recognize that I was hers.
That night, Gran and I arrived home from the sterile-smelling hospital, long after my bedtime, and found our loathed roommate waiting for us in the living room. She stared at my cast and then at me, without blinking. For a moment, I thought I recognized the beaming glow of love, but it dissolved with the sharp statement, “Ur get wat ur look for.”
Those words were a nagging hum in my ears that night. They weighed on me as I tossed and turned on my small, lumpy mattress, struggling to find a comfortable position for my heavy plaster cast. It overwhelmed my mind until the weight tired me out and I fell asleep.
During the night, I sensed an intruder staring from the shadows. A rough hand swirled the loose strands of my twist, moving along the curves of my face before a light, feathery kiss tickled my skin. A sigh escaped me, and I pulled my legs to my stomach, all with my eyes closed. Then the intruder adjusted my covers, tucking them around me to ensure they cocooned my body.
I called out to my Gran then, and the choked voice commanded, “Hush an’ go back to sleep.”
So I did.
It was strange, though, under my drowsiness, my grandmother’s voice held an echo of my mother’s tone: her body the familiar scent of disappointment.
“Gran, tell me ah story,” I begged the next day, my eyes following my grandma as she snipped at the crotons, their leaves rustling against the veranda steps. Her love of plants meant that every inch within the four corners of our yard was a verdant haven. She pruned and groomed them with the same care one gave their hair and skin.
My grandmother’s best friend, Mrs. Clarita, lived about ten houses away and shared this passion. I don’t know where Mrs. Clarita got her plants, but Gran received hers from her friend. She’d say she was popping down the road for five minutes, but hours later, I’d have to trudge over there to bring my grandmother back. As soon as the two women saw me, smiles bloomed on their faces, knowing the teasing I had in store.
They were inseparable, a tété plum, whose kindness and love shone through as exceptional mentors, always motivating those around them. After Gran died, Mrs. Clarita had become a source of strength for me, unlike the woman who birthed me, but she died not too long after.
“Oh, please, please, please, Gran,” I pleaded. My broken hand kept me from roaming the bushy unknown with the other children.
“Ok dearie. If ur help mi wid dese plants, ah go tell ur a story.”
That day, with a nostalgic gleam in her eyes, Gran told me a story about herself when she was still in demand. This was when the Carenage, abuzz with activity and string lights, hosted the annual Easter Festival, and in a country where boredom lingered, this event was a welcome escape. My grandparents, young and vivacious, weren’t about to miss it.
I’m not sure what transpired there, but it was “amazing.” I imagine the streets vibrated with soca rhythms, the air thick with the smoky aroma of charcoal-grilled BBQ, paired with exotic local rum and beer. However, the festival wasn’t the highlight of the night. What made this story interesting was what happened afterwards, on their way home along the stretch of Red Curve Road.
Back then, few people owned vehicles, and those events ended past midnight. So, my grandparents had to trudge home without streetlights. My gramps had to drop off Gran before he started his journey two villages away. That meant a 40-minute uphill walk to Grand Brie and then an hour more to his home.
As my grandmother told it, the night was peaceful until Red Curve Road, the street where most incidents were reported. Cars crashed over the precipice, turned the corner, and disappeared into the dense trees. People vanished; some awoke in their houses, heads throbbing and memories erased. While society cast glances at the bright pink estate for mentally ill patients that loomed atop the hill, most whispered of supernatural forces.
Despite his stumbling and the clamminess, Grandma held my grandfather’s hand, lulled by the night sky and the caress of the breeze. That’s when she heard it.
“Wat de arse is dat,” Gran said, when the whisper of a moan came from behind. She peered into the darkness, listening over the insistent chirping of the Johnstone frogs, and when the night became quiet, she accepted Grandpa’s reasoning of rustling trees.
But it came again.
As the twinkling houses glowed below, Gran tried to ignore the rising crescendo of the hair-raising moans, even as her scalp prickled. Then there came a time when my grandfather couldn’t deny it.
Keep in mind the folklore of a Lagabless: she was beautiful in vivid Caribbean clothes—a full skirt and head-tie—but her face was repulsive, and she had a grotesque cow’s hoof. This creature lured men into the forest to die. So, contact with her was fatal for my grandfather.
However, according to Gran’s description, what they encountered wore a long white dress that flowed in the wind. She moved fast and stomped her feet, and though the lighting was dim, my grandparents swore her face was marred with repulsive boils, sharpened teeth, and wide staring eyes that bore into their souls and froze them in place. They gawked at the creature as it swayed across the road, hair thick and matted like coconut fiber.
My grandmother was the first to recover. With the thought of calamity chilling her to the bone, she screamed, “Run!” and bolted uphill, pushing past the burn in her lungs. She sprinted like Kirani James in the Olympic finals and left my grandfather with a heavy feeling in his stomach.
He eventually pushed through the tremors and followed his girlfriend’s path to Grand Brie junction, where her dust had already settled. Gran chose the right road, a gentle incline of pavement. After smacking his face, Grandpa took the one on his left, which stretched uphill with sharp, uneven stones and deep potholes. The creature followed him.
I asked my grandma whether she had considered the condition of the road when deciding. Her response was, “Ah may be ah coward, but ah ain’t no fool.” A burst of laughter erupted then, aimed at her husband of forty-four years.
She added, “Dat man must ha’ jog ‘cause ah home long before ‘im. I done tell mi brothers and sistas wat happen when ur gramps burst through de house like ah skittish mouse.”
I watched as Gran cried herself into another laughing fit.
Gramps, with his heaving heart, escaped the Lajabless with only a sliver of a mile.
My grandmother’s siblings rushed to the window when they heard of the encounter and peered through the glass louvers, hoping to glimpse the frightening figure lurking outside. However, when the creature should have been in front of their house, the deep moaning stopped, to echo again from across the distant hill. The sound had morphed, though; now it was a piercing wail that dragged their minds from their bodies.
With my great-grandfather at his keeper’s house, Gran and her siblings had the two-bedroom plywood structure all to themselves. So, Grandpa avoided going back outside. He spent the night on my grandmother’s hard vinyl floor.
That’s what they told me, anyway.
This was one of my favorite stories because it taught me two things. First, all folklore stemmed from some form of reality. Second, had Grenada been in the Olympics in my grandmother’s youth, her speed could have made her a champion.
Editor: Michelle Naragon
