Isabella McCall, Columnist • email@example.com
At 8 AM, the day of my eighteenth birthday, I woke up and staggered down the stairs to where I could smell Momma was cooking grits with vidalia onions. After she hugged me and muttered something about how I was an adult now she ushered me to sit down. Then she placed two Blue Willow bowls full of the grits down. After a quick prayer for my life and wisdom, we started to eat.
During the meal, I asked Momma if she had called grandma last night to make sure she was coming with us today. Momma chuckled and told me that of course my grandmother was coming with us, she always did and always would, it didn’t matter if the two of them had had a small argument. My grandmother was a creature of habit and would always be there on her granddaughter’s birthday.
After we finished eating, Momma started in on the hardest task of the day, waking my grandmother up. It was a hard task because it always involved calling her three times in a row. The first time to disrupt her sleep, the second to wake her and the third to finally get an answer. Unfortunately for both my mother, myself, and my grandmother today was going to prove different.
Momma started the three phone calls, but the third call, the “lucky” call, the one that my grandmother always picked up on went to voicemail. We three more times, six more, finally, nine more times. No answer.
Momma and I tried rationalizing. Maybe she left the phone in the other room. She could not have it plugged in. But we knew my grandmother better than anybody. She always kept the phone by her bedside table so she could use it as a night light. She used it more for that than for phone calls.
Like frantic rabbits we hopped in the car; Momma driving, me calling 911. What could have happened to my grandmother?