I’m jolted awake by the sound of the train passing by, I used to be able to sleep through it, apparently I am no longer accustomed to the sound. As the piercing blast of the train's horn fades though, another sound becomes evident under it, as if there’s music playing in the speakers downstairs, I can hear the thump of the beat and also, voices, a lot of voices all mixed together indecipherable. I jump out of bed and slide on some slippers, rushing out of the room and down the hall to the front door. I hurry down the stairs and when I’ve reached the bottom I freeze. The furniture in the front sitting room has changed. In the left corner there's an old piano we threw away when I was ten, the fold out couch that was down here has turned back into the old futon we had when I was a child and when my eyes sweep to the right the air catches in my throat. My grandfather, who passed away when I was thirteen, is sitting at his desk. This is his office, this was his office, he would sit here at his desk and watch old western movies on the tiny box television on that shelf, the empty sprite cans he spit his tobacco into lined up beside him, just like this. I can barely hear the music anymore, my heartbeat is too loud in my ears, he’s been dead for decades, but he’s sitting right there, chewing on a cigar watching a movie, he isn’t even hooked up to an oxygen tank. I feel like I’m going to puke, tears start dripping off my chin, I hadn’t even realized I was crying. I’m barely breathing, the room is spinning, no I’m just falling.
I hit the floor hyperventilating, sobbing, shaking, I can’t even properly think but he doesn’t seem alarmed. In fact, he didn’t seem alarmed to see me when I came down the stairs. For a moment I wonder if I might be dead, but then the heavy door behind me is pushed open with a small grunt of effort, and a little girl runs straight through me up to my grandfather. It’s me, around age six, asking him if I can have a soda and a candy bar.
“Bring me a Sprite.”
That’s what he always said, his condition for letting me do anything and everything I wanted, all it ever cost me was bringing him a Sprite. Six-year-old me turns and runs back into the other room without another word and moments later returns with a Hershey bar and two Sprites. No more is said between the two as she sets everything on the desk and pulls herself into his lap. Once she’s gotten settled comfortably she grabs her Sprite and after a fruitless moment or two of fiddling with the tab she hands it to him. He cracks it open for her and she holds it in both hands, sipping it loudly while watching the black and white cowboy movie that she doesn’t understand.
My panic attack has subsided, but the tears linger along with the knot in my throat as I watch my young self in one of the countless moments I had spent years wishing to experience just one more time. I remain there on the floor until my heartbeat subsides and the loud thump of the music and now even louder voices is audible once more. I pull myself to my feet though I don’t really want to, and after several long lingering moments of basking in the love I remember from this moment in my life I turn and enter the skating rink.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
As soon as I step through the doorway the sound of the music washes over me. I can tell what song it is now, something by Brittney Spears I think, it’s been a while. I take a few more steps into the back counter area of the skating rink, the wall on my left lined with rental skates, the wall to my right opening up into the same thing, and in front of me the counter with my grandfather's tools for fixing broken skates. I hear my grandmother around the corner, she’s selling concessions. The old cash register clicks and clanks as she finishes the transaction. I turn the corner and see her handing a kid a plate of nachos. My mom is sitting next to the CD rack with the headphones on, she must be screening a song request to make sure it's family friendly before we put it on the speakers. My dad is putting on his skates and the whistle, the limbo poles are propped up next to him. My six year old self comes bursting back in as my grandmother announces that we will be starting the limbo after the next song over the intercom.
As my younger self puts her skates on I step out from behind the counter into the sitting area. There are some teenagers playing pool, some kids are playing the arcade games, and there's a good crowd around the claw machine watching a dad try to win a dolphin for his little girl. It’s a busy night, but they were all like this back then. I turn my eyes to the floor as the song comes to an end. The intercom crackles again and my grandmother announces the start of the limbo contest. Six year old me, now on roller-skates, comes flying out from behind the counter towards the floor to get in line. The limbo song starts to play and the line of skaters starts moving as one by one everyone goes under the highest bar.
The night goes on like this for a while, everything exactly as I remember it being, the macarena, the hokey pokey, the couples skate, and races. Young me goes back and forth from skating to playing behind the counter to sitting with Papaw in his office. Eventually she falls asleep in his lap and I watch as he carries her, me, up the stairs. I’m amazed to see him with the strength to walk up the stairs again, let alone the strength to carry someone else. He takes my six year old self into the apartment and lays her down on the couch, tucking her in with a blanket. I was a very sound sleeper back then, the train passes by again and young me doesn't even stir. I watch him stare at her for a few moments, everyone always tells me how much he adored me, it’s very evident from this perspective, I didn’t notice it as much back then.
He eventually heads back to his office, and I follow. I sit on the futon, just watching him. I wish he could see me sitting here, I wish we could talk, but if seeing him is all I can have, at least I have that.
After a few minutes I feel something in my pocket, like a marble is overheating. I reach in and my hand clasps the necklace I found this afternoon. One of the pearls is hot to the touch, and getting hotter. Not knowing what else to do, I drop the necklace on the table to avoid scalding myself, and just as I do I hear a loud pop, like a popcorn kernel popping, and everything changes. I’m left sitting on the downstairs couch in what is now the sitting room. The necklace is sitting in front of me where I just dropped it, but there is one less pearl on the chain.