I Remember Grace

By Leilah Janssen

Content warning: The following story contains a depiction of physical assault.

Yes, I remember the first time I met Grace.

Tick, tick, tick. I was waiting in an office where the clock was the loudest thing in the world, besides my worn sneakers kicking the dusty floor. The nasal voice of the Child Services representative and the clearer alto of my next foster parent filled the room. For years, I’d been hopping between different foster families, but Grace was different. Usually, when introduced, foster parents would smile kindly, greet me, and then advertise their homes like desperate salespeople. Grace just looked me up and down- not judgementally, but curiously. I got the sense that she really wanted to know me. I was having none of it. I turned to the representative.

“Can’t we just call my dad? He’ll-”

He cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“No. He isn’t safe.”

I began to protest, but he silenced me with a look.

Seething, I turned to Grace, appraising her. She looked thoughtful.

“We’re going to need to get you new shoes.”

Her comment was so surprising, I could’ve laughed. Instead, I gave her the silent treatment. 

***

At my first dinner with Grace, all four of her adopted adult children were present.

“How’s the food?” Joy, Grace’s eldest, nodded toward me.

Despite ten eyes focused on me, I stayed quiet. Paxton, Grace’s youngest, glanced towards her.

“I believe our guest has taken a vow of silence,” Grace joked.

“I see,” Joy nodded solemnly. “Perhaps we can communicate with sign language.”

The following hand motions disarmed my resolve.

“I’m not deaf,” I relented.

“Ah good! You’re not mute either,” Paxton observed. “How’s the food?”

“A bit mushy,” I admitted, “and the sauce is watery.”

“Really? Anything else?” Joy giggled. I decided that I liked Grace’s family.

“The vegetables are burnt, the cheese smells, and the noodles are rubbery.”

Grace was smiling. I decided I still didn’t like her. I couldn’t see why I needed Grace- couldn’t I just live with my dad? She only complicated things.

“This gives me an idea!” Grace exclaimed. “Tomorrow, you can help me make dinner.”

***

In bed that night, I scribbled a letter to my father. For months, this had been a habit of mine. Looking back on it now, I find it silly. I’d pen a message, detailing every annoyance from that week, and then mail it to the address we’d last shared. This one told of an overbearing woman who assaulted my ears with her agitating voice. Deep down, I knew that my father was not a good man, yet I clung to the hope that he’d make me happy. Someday.

***

I awoke to sunlight streaming through blue curtains. Roaming the room, my tired eyes landed on a pair of shoes by the door. I recognized a pair of black converse chucks, almost identical to mine, but brand-new and clean. I felt the edges of my mouth tilt upwards.

Later that day, Grace took me to the grocery store.

“You’re in charge of the list” Grace decided, handing me a sticky note crammed with writing as we walked through automatic doors.

“Did I have to come?” I groaned. The plainness of the store was already boring me to death.

“You’re helping me make dinner. Shopping for dinner’s ingredients is part of that,” Grace explained.

“There are so many better things I could be doing.”

“Trust me,” Grace winked, “you’ll thank me later.”

“I hate you,” I lied.

“I love you,” she told me.

This trip would definitely be going in my next letter.

***

I regret how I treated Grace. I was old enough to know better, but young enough to ignore that knowledge. I realize now the reason Grace disgusted me was fear. I hadn’t had what I found in Grace’s home before, and it- love- scared me. I longed for the familiarity of my relationship with my father. There were more regrettable “incidents” than I’ll share here, but, I digress.

***

“Would you pass me a carrot?” Grace asked me as she finished peeling a potato.

After setting down the pot in my hand, I reached towards the bag.

“What are we even making?” I asked.

“Dinner,” she responded with an amused smile.

My eyes rolled. Together, we peeled potatoes and chopped vegetables. With Grace’s help, I cultivated a feast fit for kings! Or, at least, fit for her welcoming table.

***

I also remember the first time I loved Grace.

Proudly, I served shepherd’s pie to Grace’s whole family that evening. All her children had come over for a family dinner, and each received my offering with delight and encouraging words. I felt so fulfilled! Maybe, just maybe, Grace wasn’t so bad.

“Yum!” Paxton exclaimed. “You should cook more often. This is way better than mom’s usual cooking.”

Grace elbowed him playfully while I chuckled. She leaned over and squeezed my shoulder.

“Well done,” She congratulated me, as the family laughed.

I’ll never forget her smile.

***

I took Paxton’s advice, and the next week I was back at the grocery store with Grace. This time, the sticky note in my hand was a gift, not a chore. We’d finished our work in aisle nine, but I wasn’t ready for what I found in aisle ten. It was my dad.

At first, I was happy to see him.

He must’ve gotten my letters! I thought.

Then I noticed his balled fists and bloodshot eyes. He called my name, but not affectionately as I’d imagined. When I looked at him, I didn’t see a father. All I saw was my mother cowering in front of him. All I heard was his angry yelling. All I felt was fear. My hands dropped the cucumbers Grace had passed me, and they fell to the floor. His tough work boots seemed to crush the tiles as he made his way towards me. Grace stepped between us. My eyes followed the cucumbers to the floor.

“Lady, you’d better move it,” Hector rumbled. “That kid belongs to me.”

“No,” Grace returned, her head held high, “You’ve lost the right to call her your child.”

The sound of Hector’s seething breaths made me jittery. When he raised his arm, it was as though I was a racehorse and someone had just thrown open the gate. I was off, propelled by fear.

“Get back here!” Hector ordered.

But he didn’t chase me. It wasn’t until later that I found out why.

Most of the shoppers remained oblivious to my distress, but several others were also running from aisle ten, phones to their ears, calling 911. When I finally stopped to look behind me, Grace still hadn’t appeared. Cautiously, I moved towards the aisle where I’d left her and called her name. Nothing. I stepped closer. Called again. Still nothing.

When I’d reached the rack of colourful cereals at the end of the aisle, I risked a peek over a box of fruit loops, and whimpered. Hector was gone, but Grace was sprawled on the floor, unconscious and bleeding. Terrified, I rushed toward her.

“Grace?” I pleaded.

No answer. Shaking, my hands found her wrist. I searched for a pulse. One, two, three, her faithful heart was beating weakly, like the tick, tick, tick of an office clock.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured over and over again through overpowering sobs. This was certainly my fault. It was my fear, my selfishness, my letters, that had put Grace in harm’s way.

Seven, eight, nine. I sat there for so long, I lost count and resorted to, tick, tick, tick. Barely, I registered authoritative voices approaching.

I felt it when her heart stopped. It missed four whole beats. Strong arms pulled me away as my world crumbled.

***

You can imagine my surprise when, early the next morning, Joy brought me news.

“Mom’s in the hospital, but the doctors say that her vitals are stable. I got to talk to her this morning-”

Joy paused, as though my blank stare had interrupted her. I opened my mouth and closed it, then opened it again.

“She’s alive?” I croaked.

“Yes,” Joy nodded slowly.

“But… I… I felt her heart stop.”

The awful moment replayed itself in my mind. Joy took my hand.

“The paramedics got to her in time. There’s this tool called an AED-”

“I know what an AED is, Joy.”

The silence that followed gave me time to contemplate this development.

“Grace wants to see you.”

***

I won’t tell you what Grace told me that day. That’s between her and me. But, I will tell you this: I remember the last time I saw Grace. It was yesterday. She was feeding my kids, who call her Granny. Through my time with her, I’ve learned that Grace is always there when she’s needed. Grace changed me. Now I try to pass on a bit of what she gave me every day. I try to change the world, one soul at a time. Because, wouldn’t the world be a much better place with a little more grace in it?