and self-awareness in me, and I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without Grandma Jean.
But you wouldn’t know it from my current occupation. The pseudo radio therapist was someone I made up. I’d played around with different personalities on my college radio station as a joke. I got a call from a scout after college, and now the joke was on me because I’m stuck.
My producer, Rhonda, gave me a nod through the window panels, signaling the show was about to start. I scanned my small studio no bigger than half a dorm room. My U-shaped desk included a computer and all of my necessities. Green tea, because it made me wise: check. Fuzzy socks, because the GM at the station, who didn’t give a damn about his staff’s comfort, blasted cold air all year long: double check and a toe wiggle. A notepad for when I was inspired to write between commercial breaks: checkity-check-check. And last but not least, my handy whiteboard, also known as my sanity. Some nights I played hangman with myself. If my producer was in a bad mood, which wasn’t often, she’d join the game. The magic phrase that pays never changed: “Kill Me Now.”
I know, how millennial of me. Some of my callers were sweet, and I affectionately named them my raindrops. But a good majority were the cause of their own problems, and they wanted a song to magically fix it.
“Sure, Noah from Buckhead. I’ll put in your request to play ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ for your wife, even though you got caught banging your secretary.” Some callers got the full K-I-L-L at once.
My producer’s pale fingers jutted in the air. “In three . . . two . . .” The “one” was silent.
I pulled in a breath away from the mic and then leaned in. “It’s midnight, and you’re listening to the smooth sounds of WBXL radio. I’m Raina, and I can’t wait to hear from my raindrops today. Before we kick off our calls, I want to read you an email I received last week from one of my listeners.” I pulled up the email on the computer screen.
Dear Raina,
My name is Elise. I’m twenty years old and my grandmother is dying. Nana raised me when my parents abandoned me. My first memories are of my grandmother reading to me, teaching me how to can fruits, sew, and cook. Best of all, she encouraged me to dance. I love dancing and I’m good at it—I’m currently attending Juilliard.
I called Nana and I visited home every chance I could afford, but it hadn’t occurred to me that her voice had gotten weaker. She told me to stay in New York the few times I insisted on visiting her, so I could save my money. After a while, I realized I was being put off and decided to go home. When I saw the oxygen tank, I knew she was dying.
The problem is, she refuses to let me take a leave of absence from school. She made me promise to stay and says it doesn’t make sense for me to stop my life to watch an old woman die. Against my better judgment, I’ve returned to school. But with every pirouette, extension, and plié I take, I feel heavy, guilty. I want to leave school. How do I get her to see that it’s the decision I want to make without upsetting her?
Conflicted and brokenhearted,
Elise
My throat squeezed shut, remembering Grandma Jean’s death. One moment she was watering her plants in the backyard, the next she was dead of a heart attack. I didn’t know which option was worse, the unexpected suddenness of someone being here today and gone tomorrow or knowing your loved one has limited time left. This poor girl was alone. At least I had my mother. I pressed my fingers against my eyelids.
Keep it together, girl.
I cleared my throat. “Grandmothers are precious. My grandmother passed when I was in my early twenties, and it was devastating. She was my rock like your Nana is yours. I can feel the agony pouring from your email . . . but, Elise, I think you’ve already made your decision. Go home. Take care of Nana. Don’t let her sway you. Stand your ground and her anger will pass. I don’t know if you’re religious, but I do believe in heaven, and Nana sounds like a pretty sure bet to get her wings when it’s her time. I also want to remind you to