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I am slowly climbing the stairs to grandma's. I know there is something awful in there but I do not know what it is. Against my will, I open the door. Grandma is sitting in her rocking chair beckoning to me. I do not want to go to her but my legs move me forward anyway. She pulls me on her lap and rips my shirt apart. I look up and see a skeleton hand, the bones grasping a long butcher knife. The afternoon sun glistens on the blade. The knife comes down hard. I wake up screaming.
Everybody has fond memories of their grandmothers. Maybe because of their kind disposition, or the way they always took sides with you against your parents. Maybe you recall the wonderful stories they told, or the cookies, milk and apple pie that were the best in the whole wide world. Well, I have a few fond memories of my grandma - and one nasty bit.
Grandma, she was my father's mama, lived on the second floor of our two-story house. She loved my sister, Lisa and me a lot as far back as I could remember. But I remember most what happened when I was seven and Lisa was five. We used to run upstairs as often as we could so grandma can tell us stories or give us some cookies or pies. Grandma made the best apple pie in the world. Her milk was creamy and sweet, I have not tasted any that good ever since.
Grandma loved hearts. Not the kind you engrave for your sweetheart on a tree birch, or get on your Valentine's card. She loved real hearts. Cow hearts, goat hearts, pig hearts, chicken hearts, you name it, she ate it. She cooked them every which way and was in fact a culinary expert on heart recipes.
"The heart is the source of life," she would often tell us. "You get the most nutrition, the most strength from hearts." We did not understand what she was talking about. She fed us the hearts too. Each animal's heart tasted differently. Most of them were delicious but I suppose that is because she was just a great cook. Grandma could make liver taste delicious. But we were not interested in hearts. We just wanted cookies, milk and apple pie that was the best in the whole wide world.
"When I was a child," she would tell us. "We lived on a farm. Had fresh products daily. None of this frozen crap you get these days. My gramma used to make me dolls from corn cobs. Pretty dolls, she could make. Grandpa made airplane toys from dried corn stalks and leaves for my brother Timothy. I remember Timothy running against the wind, those propellers spinning." We loved grandma.
Mom is the one began questioning grandma's yen for hearts.
"Don't you think she eats too many of those damn things?" She asked Dad.
"What's wrong with eating hearts, honey? She's happy and healthy. What more could one ask for?"
"Oh, nothing I guess. I just thought she was getting a bit obsessive, you know. I thought she might try some other form of meat."
"The heart is fat-free and very nutritious. Let her be happy in her final days, honey," they had a conversation of that sort.
So Mom did not talk about it anymore. At least nothing I heard. Grandma ate more and more hearts. Lisa and I visited her frequently for our favorite snacks. As days went on, grandma began searching for more exotic hearts. She wanted goose hearts, rabbit hearts and even one time requested a horse heart.
At this point, Mom persuaded Dad to talk to grandma. I guess Dad did not do much in the way of persuasion cause he went out and got grandma her horse heart.
Grandma's obsession with hearts never changed her attitude towards Lisa and I. We still got our cookies and milk. And the best apple pie in the whole wide world. We still got our stories from the past. She was healthier than ever. I thought, at one time, that some of her wrinkles had smoothed out. Her silver hair was turning grayish and even darker. She was getting more and more energetic each day. She sewed socks, mittens and sweaters for us kids by the dozens. Maybe there was something in the hearts that gave her inner strength, revitalized her. Maybe.
One afternoon, it was a Sunday I remember cause we had gone to Church that morning, Mom was in the kitchen cooking and Dad was watching a ball game in the living room while Lisa and I played on the stairs. Grandma, awful quiet that morning, called Lisa. As soon as Lisa got through the door, grandma told her to shut it behind her. Curious that I might miss out on some goodies, I peeked through the keyhole. Grandma was sitting on her chair gently rocking back and forth, a pillow on her lap. She beckoned Lisa over.
When Lisa got there, grandma caressed her face gently and ran fingers through her long, pretty hair telling her how silky the hair felt. Suddenly, without warning, grandma pushed Lisa's head against the pillow and pressed hard. I always tell myself that I should have run then. I should have screamed and called for my parents. But I did not. I just stood there frozen with my eyeball on the keyhole. Lisa struggled for a while trying to pull away, but grandma held tight. Soon Lisa's hands and legs twitched helplessly then she was still. I was so scared I could not breath.
Grandma waited for a moment then slowly turned Lisa over. Lisa's face was all puffed up. She was limp. Grandma pulled the pillow away. Underneath it was a huge butcher knife. She ripped Lisa's dress leaving her chest bare. Then she raised the knife high in the air and brought it down hard.
My legs and bladder gave in. I fell on my knees as I wet my pants. Soon I was racing down the stairs screaming. I screamed Lisa's name over and over again while pointing upstairs. My parents got the message that Lisa was in some kind of trouble. They rushed upstairs. I followed them, afraid to be alone. My heart was pumping so hard I thought it would pop out of my chest.
Mom got there first and opened the door. She screamed high and long then fell down in a faint. Dad made some groaning sounds, almost went to the rest room to throw up, I think, but changed his mind and walked to the phone where he called the police.
Lisa was sprawled across grandma's lap. Her chest had been ripped open. Blood spread all over her and grandma. Grandma had removed Lisa's heart. She was cutting it up and chewing it raw.
"Best damn heart I ever tasted," she said then burped noisily. I passed out.
The police came and took both grandma and Lisa away. I was so shocked I did not talk for a while. The nightmares were the worst. They would come once every few days. Even now, though I'm grown up, I sometimes still get them. But I only get them maybe once a year now. I have been in therapy for a good portion of my life. Mom never forgave Dad for not persuading grandma to give up her hearts when all she ate were rabbits and horses. I know she never did.
Grandma died soon after being locked up in a mental institution, but I still remember the good times we had. Even though what I remember most is Lisa on her lap. And blood. Lots of it. I also remember Lisa and wonder if she ever forgave me for not saving her. Because I know I could have. And you know it too.
