The first time the kitchen chair moved by itself, a couple of nights ago, I was wasted. I had just gotten home after a night out with a dude I met by swiping to the right and decided to grab something to eat. I remember the wooden seat hitting hard against my leg and stifling a curse so I wouldn’t wake up Grandma Lita. The chair moved back, slowly, but I was so plastered that I didn’t care. Not until this morning, when it happened again.
Grandma Lita had already left for work at the diner, even though she doesn’t really need the job. Every time I asked her why she’s still working when she should be enjoying her retirement, she said, “Susy, coffee doesn’t make itself.” That phrase didn’t explain anything to me, except that grandma loves talking to people, so maybe waitressing is her way to connect to others, especially after Grandpa Julio passed away.
I was thinking about that while drinking the delicious coffee she had prepared, when the chair next to me moved back in a swift motion, producing a screeching sound. Then it stopped, and I swear that I felt a weight landing on it, as if someone had just sat there. The hair stood on the back of my neck, and I ran out of the room.
From the living room, I sneaked peeks toward the kitchen, avoiding blinking while watching the chair. I don’t know what I expected to happen, maybe watching it float in the air or something. But when the chair didn’t move, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I pushed my head against the wall, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. As an answer to that, my ex’s voice screamed inside my head, listing all my flaws. It repeated the same things he had told me when we were married, before I even considered filing for divorce. ‘Fat ass’—his favorite insult—resonated louder than the rest, followed by ‘stupid cow’, and a bunch of other bovine synonyms.
“He’s just joking,” I told people the few times Jack let those words out in public, once—and only once—during a dinner with grandma and grandpa. Grandpa Julio had taken me aside that night and asked if everything was okay between us. When I assured him that it was—my hand making a dismissive gesture—he frowned and said in the lower voice that he only used when he was being extremely serious, “If you ever need me, I’m here for you.”
“I know,” I said, giving him a hug.
Grandpa Julio died before I told him anything, before I said ‘enough’ after Jack’s latest beating. But his presence was always there with me. He was there when I sobbed in the hospital and then again when I packed my stuff and left while Jack was passed out drunk.
