Finding something to hold on to
November 22, 2024 | story by Lauren Brensel and illustration by Delia Rose Sauer
This story is from Atrium’s Winter 2024 magazine, which releases December 2024.
We stand in a semi-circle in silence. Then, empty promises: My mom will admit that your pea soup is better than hers. My cousin will vote for your preferred candidate for president.
I think, but don’t say (because that would be embarrassing): I’ll play mahjong with you, even though the tiles are confusing, and I hate feeling stupid. I’ll learn to drive, just like you wanted, even though I’m petrified I’ll accidentally hit someone.
At this point, I’ll do anything if you wake up.
Nothing.
My mind wanders.
I’m 9, and my hand is gripping a fabric marker, scribbling “Camp Brensel” in messy block letters on my version of our matching tees. My palms, sweaty and sore from holding the marker so tight, fumble to get the shirt on. I dash toward the bathroom mirror, eager to admire my masterpiece.
It is the ugliest shirt I’ve ever seen.
Balloons and rainbows and — puppies? I think these were supposed to be puppies, but I’m not even sure. Each drawing bleeds into the next. I sneak a glimpse at my sister’s design: dainty cursive with perfectly placed lilies. Story of my life.
My shirt is objectively the ugliest, yes, but I wear it with pride. At the science museum and the movies and the park, it’s my token of gratitude to you for getting me out of the hellhole that is the YMCA in Florida’s July heat. And, sometimes my cousin would attend camp days, and his shirt was actually objectively the ugliest, so whatever.
Grandma’s Camp Brensel was dedicated to the kids, and I liked calling the shots. My first order of business: building my own dollhouse. We rummage through the garage, my eyes glazing over towers of art supplies. How a woman could store so many popsicle sticks is beyond me. We land on pastel-pink shoeboxes and glue and get to work.
You start painting a miniature, cardboard chaise lounge. I hesitate. Art makes me uneasy. If it isn’t perfect, why try at all? Eventually, I join in. The methodical swishing of the brush bristles calms me down. It’s quiet, the hum of the AC lulling us into the craft. I’m only a kid, but I know deep down moments like these don’t come often.
But then we bicker about what color the interior should be, and I’m sorry, Grandma, but Perfect Plum Purple is perfectly putrid.
You’re always so stubborn, even now. Someone jokes you’re doing this on purpose.
I’m 12 and partially embarrassed I still sometimes sleep over at my grandma’s house. We gorge on Judge Judy reruns and popcorn. Judy’s rulings, just like yours, are always right, and that helps ease my mind. The schedule rarely goes off routine.
7 p.m. Dinner
8 p.m. Boggle
8:30 p.m. Boggle interruption — Pop sings showtunes over us until you beg him to stop.
9 p.m. Family gossip before bed
10:30 p.m. proceeds as scheduled, but is not always a given.
The door squeaks, signaling my favorite part of the night. I pretend to sleep as you deposit a small bowl of chocolates on the nightstand. “Sleepover secrets,” you whisper. I smile in the dark and think: Life can be simple and sweet.
Your eyes flutter back and forth. I think it’s working! OK, let’s see.
I’m 14, and
Wait, no —
I’m 15, and high school is, well, a lot. But I find time for Tuesday’s dinner and movie. This week, it’s “Little Women.” My heart swells during Laurie’s monologue to Jo. In the dark theater, I look to you for your reaction. Surely, you’re feeling this, too.
You’re asleep. Rare, but understandable. You ask if I’d be OK skipping dinner on the way home. I remember you’re getting older.
Still nothing. God, why won’t you wake up?
I’m newly 17 and have made the adult decision to spend my birthday with friends. The buzz of my phone pulls me into a moral dilemma: You’re calling, but dinner just arrived. It would be rude for me to excuse myself now, right?
I wonder if I still have that voicemail. I should look in case —
I’m still 17, and if teenage ignorance wasn’t a hindrance, now a pandemic impedes our relationship. I see you once. From afar.
…
Still 17. Your voice is garbled on the phone, small even. We catch up. My mom cries in her room. Your nurse is on the other line. I tell you I won a reporting award from our local paper. You tell me to stick with this whole journalism thing.
I will.
We make plans over the phone for when you’re home. You and Pop are nearing 60 years of marriage. I promise to do your makeup for your vow renewals. I’m thinking a smoky eye and glossy, nude lip.
I’m 17 and standing over you, your goddamn eyes still closed. I rack my brain for something else.
Remember when we hosted the whole family for dinner?
My breathing quickens, my sniffling escalates.
You printed menus, I took orders. We made the biggest mess in your kitchen.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, give me something. You are the most stubborn person in the entire world, and now I’m mad at you — I’m actually mad at my grandma while she is in a coma. That’s just great.
What is all this for?
As a kid, I thought your grip on my memories — my life — was Gorilla-Glue grade. I never feared forgetting you. I can still feel the heat blistering my skin the summer of Camp Brensel. I can hear your artificial valve tick, tick, ticking in your chest.
But what if, when you leave, the glue wears off? All I’ll have are sticky notes. Short, sweet synopses of you that could be plucked away at any time.
I’m 21, and I revisit one anecdote often.
I’m 10, 11, 12, 13 — doesn’t matter — and we’re sitting down for family dinner. You ask the age-old question: “What was the best part of everyone’s day?” I roll my eyes. I hate when you ask us that, even though it happens every time we eat together.
I’m 21, and suddenly, I don’t hate that question anymore. I try my hardest to view life like family dinner — to find the positive. My answer today is that I have the world’s ugliest summer camp T-shirt, aside from my cousin’s. And it took two years, but I got my driver’s license. And I have a pretty durable collection of sticky notes.
They’ve held on this long, at least.
