Vanessa Kinzey

I had just fallen down the attic stairs. I was falling and falling, until I guess I blacked out.

When I opened my eyes, I was on the floor. But it was…wrong. First of all it was cold. A lot colder than the golden oak flooring in my parent’s hallway. And there seemed to be some sort of speckled pattern on it. I remember thinking that something must have spilled out of the suitcase, or maybe those were my brains scattered everywhere. But as my eyes focused and I took a good look at the surface beneath me, I realized quite simply that this was NOT my parent’s hallway.

“I must have hit my head REALLY hard.” I thought to myself.

Looking up, I realized I was in a kitchen. It was like stepping onto the set of Leave it to Beaver or something. From my vantage point on the floor, I found myself staring up at these mint green flat-paneled cabinets. Were they metal? There were ruffled gingham checked curtains hanging above the window, which was perfectly situated with the kitchen sink. I was still soaking it all in when someone walked into the room with the confidence of a drill-sergeant. Without a doubt, this was the owner of this absurdly charming kitchen.

It was a woman, probably in her mid 30’s, with short, dark hair, that had been curled to a kind of perfection that Elizabeth Taylor would have envied. She was wearing a pale pink dress with buttons down the front and a cinched waist. It came down to her calves, and moved gracefully with her as she walked.

I was hoping she couldn’t see me, but without looking directly at me, she barked a firm, but not unkind order, “Get off the floor, you silly girl. I can’t have you lollygagging around the kitchen while I make breakfast.”

Still frozen to my spot I watched her fly around the space. She deftly snatched her apron, tied it behind her, and began to pull out the ingredients and tools she’d need for a kind of breakfast that she had obviously made a thousand times.

As I watched her, I felt a sneaking familiarity, like deja vu, creeping into my body. I know this is crazy, but as I watched this quintessential 1950’s housewife navigate her kitchen with the confidence and grace of a figure-skater, I began to feel that I knew her somehow. And it kind of made sense at the time – assuming I was dreaming, and this was some sort of injury-induced hallucination – I suppose my brain would create something familiar and homey, right? Well, my brain outdid itself in the charm department.

Never pausing or looking up from her task, the woman scolded me again, “If you insist on staying in here, then I’m going to put you to work.” As she said this, she pointed at a big yellow bowl sitting on the counter.

I got up off the floor, and stood at the formica countertop, running my fingers over the steel edging that bordered it. This didn’t *feel* like a dream. I placed my hands on either side of the big yellow bowl in front of me.

The woman didn’t skip a beat and gestured toward some shiny canisters which were labeled Flour, Sugar, Coffee, and Tea. “1 cup flour, 1 Tablespoon sugar, 3 teaspoons baking powder, ½ teaspoon salt,” she impressively rattled off the memorized ingredients. 
The woman was turned away from me and I found myself gaping at the back of her head, searching for a clue as to why she seemed so familiar. She reminded me of my mom. The shape of her hands, her profile, the color of her hair. And then it hit me. “Grandma?” I whispered under my breath.

“We’ll see Grandma tomorrow evening at Sunday Dinner,” the woman replied. “How many times do I have to tell you this?”

So, my mother hadn’t been exaggerating about my grandmother’s hearing.

She continued, “Salt and baking powder are in the pantry.”

Still holding the yellow bowl in my hands, I glanced around the room, searching for what could possibly be a pantry when my eyes fell upon the suitcase from my parent’s attic. It was tucked under the kitchen table, just barely visible under the checked gingham tablecloth that seemed to want to be twins with the curtains. The suitcase almost looked like a dog, waiting patiently for the invariable tablescrap.

I dashed toward the suitcase, and blindly snatched the handles from under the table. And I felt the floor shift uncomfortably beneath my feet. I had this vague sensation of falling. And then darkness again.