Come On, Danielle, Get In Here

Grandma Joyce, cousin Chelsea, cousin Austin, and my sister Celeste

There is a photograph of my grandma

on a cruise ship,

dressed exactly as Grandma Joyce

would have considered appropriate—

bright colors competing cheerfully

for jurisdiction,

earrings large enough

to have their own weather system,

lipstick firmly on duty,

and one hand stretched

straight toward the camera.

Except it wasn't reaching

for the camera.

It was reaching for me.

I was standing just outside the picture.

I did that sometimes.

Not because I didn't want

to be in the photograph.

That was the explanation

other people supplied for me:

Danielle doesn't want her picture taken.

But Grandma knew better.

She would look over,

put out her hand,

and say,

"Come on, Danielle, get in here."

And somehow those few words

contained an entire philosophy.

You are part of this.

I noticed you're missing.

There is room.

Come here.

Grandma Joyce did not enter a room

so much as alter its weather.

There was no slipping quietly

into an available chair,

no waiting politely

for someone to ask what she thought.

She had already told you.

She wore clothes that announced themselves,

jewelry with its own gravitational pull,

and makeup that appeared to operate

on a twenty-four-hour schedule.

Even at the pool,

she wore a cover-up

with a bikini printed across the front—

a swimsuit without the inconvenience

of actually being a swimsuit.

Her infamous cover-up being modeled by actress Cobie Smulders.

She had been born beside her twin, Jean,

two girls arriving together,

but Joyce was never destined

to disappear into a matching set.

She was noticeable.

Newspapers once placed her among

Salt Lake County's beauties.

They printed her photograph,

reported on her engagement,

and recorded the diamond

Gordon slipped onto her finger.

But photographs were always

a little inadequate for Grandma.

They could capture the lipstick.

They could capture the hair.

They could capture earrings

that probably deserved

their own insurance policy.

But they could not capture

what happened around her.

The time she rolled down

a car window in San Francisco

and called out,

"Where are all the gays?"

while everyone related to her

briefly considered opening

the opposite door

and joining another family.

Or dinner on a cruise ship,

when she wrapped a rare steak

in a napkin,

put it into her purse,

and carried it to the show afterward,

because apparently

intermission snacks

should still be bleeding slightly.

Thoughts arrived in Grandma's head

without a waiting room.

Sometimes they were funny.

Sometimes they were embarrassing.

Sometimes the people beside her

would have preferred

a modest thirty-second delay

between inspiration

and public announcement.

Grandma had no delay.

She was loud in the way she dressed,

loud in the way she laughed,

loud in the way she loved.

And yet when I look at this photograph,

that is not the loudest thing I see.

I see her hand.

When my parents went away

on anniversary trips,

Celeste and I stayed

at Grandma and Grandpa's—

though in my memory,

it will always be

Grandma's house.

She gave us marshmallows so stale

that Celeste and I grew up believing

that was simply how marshmallows tasted:

slightly hardened,

faintly chewy,

and requiring commitment.

Then late at night

she put on Child's Play 2,

giving both of us

a lifelong suspicion

of dolls with movable eyes

and any toy that appeared

too pleased with itself.

And still,

with Chucky loose on the television

and every doll in the house

suddenly under investigation,

I felt safe.

Because Grandma was there.

That was the strange gift

of her enormous presence:

she could make the world louder

without making it feel less secure.

She could embarrass you in public,

smuggle steak into a theater,

terrify her granddaughters

with questionable movie selections,

and somehow leave you thinking

nothing truly terrible

could happen

while Joyce was in charge.

Her presence filled a room

so completely

that fear had less space

to settle.

And maybe that is why

this photograph means so much to me.

Because I know what was happening

just outside its edges.

I know there was a girl

standing beyond the frame,

close enough to belong

but not quite stepping forward.

And Grandma saw her.

Really saw her.

She didn't decide,

She must want to be alone.

She didn't accept the convenient explanation

that I didn't want the picture.

She didn't leave me

where I had placed myself.

She reached.

Come on, Danielle, get in here.

There are people

who take up space.

Grandma certainly knew how.

But what I understand now

is that she also created it.

Her largeness did not always mean

there was less room for everyone else.

Sometimes it meant

she was the person making sure

the room stretched wide enough

to hold one more.

Me.

I think about her now

when I enter a room.

I notice the person

sitting a little apart.

The person who looks perfectly fine

by themselves,

because sometimes

looking perfectly fine

is simply what you do

while hoping somebody notices.

I don't have Grandma's ability

to collect a stranger's entire biography

in ten minutes flat—

names, marriages, disappointments,

children, medical histories,

and at least one detail

the rest of us

would have considered private.

That particular gift

appears to have ended with Joyce.

Probably for the protection

of the general public.

But I like to think

I inherited a quieter version.

I can sit down.

I can smile.

I can ask a question

and stay long enough

to hear the answer.

I can try to make somebody feel

that their words landed somewhere,

that someone noticed

they were in the room.

I may not leave

with the juicy stories.

That's all right.

There could only ever be one Joyce—

one woman carrying

that much love,

lipstick,

curiosity,

jewelry,

volume,

and possibly refrigerated beef

into a single room.

The world did not need

another copy.

But maybe she left

a little of her noticing behind.

Less interrogation.

Fewer accessories.

Considerably less steak

in my purse.

But still the instinct

to look toward the edges

and see who isn't quite

in the picture yet.

Now the rooms are quieter.

No bracelets entering

a moment before she does.

No unfiltered question

hovering over the dinner table.

No suspiciously firm marshmallows.

No late-night horror movie

selected with catastrophic judgment.

And no Grandma Joyce

reaching across the empty space

between herself

and someone she loves.

There is more quiet now.

But quiet is not always peace.

Sometimes it is only the place

where a remarkable person

used to be.

Grandma Joyce was never

soft background music.

She was the whole brass section,

slightly ahead of the conductor

and unconcerned about it.

She walked into a room

and the room shifted.

But when I look at this photograph,

I don't think first

about how much room she filled.

I think about the room

she made.

Her hand is still extended.

Her face is turned toward me.

Everyone else is already

where they are supposed to be.

And Grandma is making sure

I get there too.

"Come on, Danielle, get in here."

Maybe that was her gift all along.

Not simply being impossible to miss—

but making sure

the people she loved

weren't missed either.