Finally, Gina glanced back over her shoulder, towards the kitchen. “You had better come inside.”
Martha stepped into the hallway. She cast her eyes around, at the floral wallpaper and the cream, green and brick-red Victorian tiles on the floor. Photos lined the walls in a multitude of different frames but her eyes flitted over them, not able to settle on the scenes and people they featured. The smell of cake warmed the air, making it feel like a family home, the opposite to her own house.
The black Scottie dog scampered towards her, his claws skittering on the hallway floor. She bent down to ruffle him under the chin and saw his name tag in the shape of a silver bone. Percy.
“Stay here, please,” Gina said crisply, as if she was a doctor’s receptionist and Martha was a patient who’d turned up very late for her appointment. She walked to the kitchen and closed the door behind her.
Martha stood for a moment, wondering what she should do. It seemed impolite to look around the hallway, for clues of her grandmother, so she crouched and continued to admire Percy. He was delighted by the attention but her hands shook as she stroked his head.
As Percy flipped over with his legs raised in the air, Martha could hear the murmur of voices and the scratch of her nails on the dog’s stomach. She felt almost motion-sick, her head swaying, as she waited, and waited.
Every inch of her body felt alert. The roots of her hair were on end and she could hear every noise. She detected two voices in the kitchen and a strange sound of something moving around in there.
Time ticked by too slowly before the kitchen door finally opened again. Gina ventured out of the room first and, through her legs, Martha caught a glimpse of a wheel. She saw a few inches of turquoise blanket.
Gina stood to the side and a woman in a wheelchair rolled forward. Martha saw her hands, then her shoulders and headscarf.
Everything seemed to fall into slow motion.
Martha lifted her head and stopped stroking Percy. He butted her hand, eager for more petting. She stood up, leaving him staring up at her. Her knees felt like they weren’t her own.
She tried to find a smile but felt her face begin to crumble. Her chin shook with disappointment.
She was standing in a hallway with two people she didn’t know.
A sob wracked in her chest and she fought against it. Then a tear spilled down her cheek and she angrily tore at it with her fist. She’d made a big stupid mistake. Her nana had died a long time ago and she was here, making a fool of herself.
The woman in the wheelchair was a stranger.
She wasn’t Zelda.
In one last desperate attempt, Martha frantically searched in her head, for images of her nana that she could associate with the person sitting in front of her, but she couldn’t find anything.
Her nana had tanned long legs and cartwheeled on the beach. However, this woman’s ankles, peeking out under the blanket, were gnarled with blue veins. Zelda’s blond curls used to escape from her headscarf but this woman covered every hair on her head. Martha’s grandmother had skin that crinkled with laughter around her eyes, yet the stranger’s face had deep folds like creases in a velvet curtain.
Martha berated herself. Just because she believed in fairy stories when she was small didn’t mean they came true. One of her knees buckled and she had to focus on remaining upright.
In a brief flashback, she remembered her nana hoisting her skirt above her knees to show off her new cork-wedged sandals but going too far and giving a couple of workmen a flash of her knickers. She saw her with hairpins poking out between her lips like strange teeth as she set her hair in rollers.
The word sorry bubbled on her lips, but she couldn’t let it out in case a blub followed it. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop crying—at her own stupid belief and at how pathetic she was. Traveling all this way had been a huge mistake.
She watched the woman’s eyes shifting over her, examining her from top to toe, taking in every detail. She lingered on Martha’s hairstyle, her clothes, the shape of her body, the size of her hands, before finally settling on her shoes.
She’s wondering who the hell I am.
The woman rubbed her nose, her eyebrows knitted. A sudden blast of laughter burst from her lips. She threw her head back and then forward again. “Ha ha.”
Martha didn’t know what to do, or what was going on.
The woman laughed for a while and then her smile gradually subsided. It was replaced with a searching squint of her eyes. Then she opened her mouth to speak. “Bloody hell. Is it really you, Martha?”
Time froze as Martha’s senses homed in on her words. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked to attention.
It was a voice that she knew.
And had loved.
Martha forced herself to look harder at the woman sitting in front of her. She was small and hunched, with her body half obscured by her blanket. She had a missing tooth, on the top row and to the left, and Martha remembered the toffee apple incident at the fair.
The missing molar was the key for her to begin to unlock the rest of the woman’s features. Perhaps she did recognize her kind blue eyes.
“Z-Zelda?”
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out,” the old woman said, still grinning.
Martha reeled to the side and pressed her hand to the wall.
Her memory of the younger version of Zelda and the woman in front of her slowly started to align. It was like watching a person swimming underwater. First you could see only their shape and colors, and it was only when they broke the surface that you could see them clearly.
And now she knew in her bones that her nana was sitting here before her.
“You’re a bloody grown-up lady,” Zelda said, her eyes glistening. Her hands clutched the blanket on her knees. “In my head, you’re a teenager.” Then her smile faltered. It slipped away, replaced by one of bewilderment. “You even have stripes in your hair.”
Martha took a step forward. She cleared her throat. “Zelda Sanderson?” she asked formally, her eyes still questioning. She couldn’t believe that the woman who helped to raise her, who shared stories with her, who she believed to be dead, was here. “Nana?”
As she said that word, it sounded beautiful but bizarre, too, because she was middle-aged and the woman in front of her was an old lady. Martha had laid her to rest in her mind many times. She’d said goodbye. Forever.
“Is it really you?” She gasped.
Zelda gave a slight nod. She wiped a tear away with a crooked finger. Then she held out her hand.
Martha looked over at Gina, not quite sure why she was seeking some kind of permission from the lady who answered the door. Gina semiclosed her eyes and turned her head away.
Hesitantly, Martha stepped forward and reached out. When she took hold of her nana’s fingers they felt like brittle twigs. She held them lightly, not wanting to squeeze any tighter in case they snapped. “I thought you were gone. Mum and Dad told me you died—so how can you be here?”
Zelda lowered her eyes and stared at her lap. “I’m so sorry...” She pulled her hand away and fumbled up her sleeve for a handkerchief.
Martha’s temples pulsated. “But why would they tell me that? What happened?”
“I never thought I’d see you again...” Zelda shook her head.
“Where have you been?” Martha let her hands fall. “My parents lied to me... Do you know they died?”
Zelda gave the slightest nod. “Yes. A few years ago. I know about them.”
“So, why didn’t you—?”
“Stop now,” Gina snapped. Her features were frosty as she moved to the center of the hallway. Martha had to step backwards to give her some space. “Ezmerelda needs to take things easy.”
The tendons in Martha’s neck strained. She balled her hand into a fist. “It’s been over thirty years. I need to know—”
“It’s best if you leave now,” Gina said.
Martha glared at her. “But we need to talk.”
“The doctor has told Ezmerelda to rest up, with no excitement.”
Zelda reached out and tugged on Gina’s jacket. “Please. Martha is here and this is all so...bloody weird and amazing.”