This excerpt is from my upcoming memoir, Extraordinary Machine: A Memoir of Trauma and Resilience.
While the memoir mainly focuses on my relationship with my mom, this chapter looks at a quieter, unexpected relationship that took time, awkward meals, and a shared dislike of peas to develop into something meaningful.
When my Nana (my grandmother on my mom’s side) married Perry, I wasn’t ready for him. He wasn’t Johnny, the warm grandpa I was used to. Perry was quiet and reserved and didn’t seem interested in the role I expected him to play. I wasn’t very excited about letting him into my life, either.
But as you’ll see in this excerpt, connections have a way of happening unexpectedly. Through small gestures, surprise laughter, and a surprise Goosebumps box set, Perry became more than Nana’s new husband—he became my grandpa.
A Substitute Grandpa
I initially hated my Grandpa Perry.
“I want Johnny!” I remember crying during my first overnight stays with them while they danced to soul music in the living room. It was one of the few times I saw them show affection.
From my perspective, Johnny had just disappeared. He wasn’t just anyone; he was Nana’s long-term boyfriend and the closest thing I’d ever had to a grandfather. I’d grown up with him, wrapped in his unconditional love and impossibly spoiled. So when I met Perry, and Nana told me she and Johnny had broken up, I felt blindsided. I was only seven, and either I was too young to understand the details, or Nana left them out entirely.
All I could think was, ‘What happened to my beloved Johnny, with his warm hugs and Gatorade? Why wasn’t he with us here? I hadn‘t even had a chance to say goodbye. And why had he been replaced with this beer-bellied, boring man who spent all his time glued to ESPN?’
Perry never seemed to get over my first tearful outburst. So, he approached me carefully.
He seemed exhausted by the mere idea of me. His kids were around my mom’s age; one daughter lived in San Francisco with her partner and had no kids, and I think his son was estranged. He hadn’t been around a child my age outside of a classroom in years. He only knew how to connect with me when I got bored enough to flip through his old yearbooks. I’d sit at the kitchen table, pointing to random faces.
“Did you know this person?”
“Yes,” he’d grumble, barely looking up from the football game.
Eventually, though, we bonded—over Nana’s cooking, of all things. She was an incredible cook, but she had a habit of deciding the menu every night without consulting us. She’d always pile my plate high with peas, even though I hated them. She’d do the same to Perry despite him being a grown man and hating them, too.
“I said I didn’t want any peas,” he’d mumble, shifting them around on his plate.
“Well, too bad,” she’d matter-of-factly reply as she sat down to eat.
One night, I tried to hide my peas under my mashed potatoes. As I poked at my plate, I saw something soft hit the table. I looked up to see Perry doing the same thing: hiding his peas. One had escaped and rolled onto the table.
We locked eyes and laughed. Quietly at first, then uncontrollably. Nana looked up, her face brightening with a smile. “What are you two laughing about?”
“Nothing, right, Brittany?” Perry said, winking at me.
“Yeah, nothing,” I giggled back, pushing another pea under my potatoes.
Perry figured out that I loved to read. One Christmas, he surprised me by handing me a gift he had bought himself, not something Nana had purchased, and he had put his name on.
My hands trembled as I unwrapped the box, and then I saw it: the complete set of Goosebumps books. I held them like they were fragile, my fingers running over the colourful spines.
I glanced at Perry. He stood awkwardly by the dining room table, anxiously watching my reaction, his hands nervously stuffed in his jeans pockets.
I rushed towards him, enveloping him in a hug, wrapping my arms tightly around that beer belly I once hated. “Thank you, Perry,” I said sincerely, my eyes wet with tears of happiness.
It was the first time I hugged him. He hugged me back, hesitantly at first and then tighter.
Though he was retired, Perry occasionally worked as a substitute teacher. One morning, I walked into my third-grade classroom, and to my surprise, I saw him sitting behind the desk.
He winked at me; I winked back.
At recess, he pulled me aside. “I didn’t know I’d be in your class until this morning. Don’t tell anyone you know me. I don’t want them thinking I’m playing favourites.”
He still looked proud whenever I raised my hand to answer a question. After lunch, though, I overheard some girls giggling about him.
“He’s so boring,” one said. “I think he fell asleep during class!” another laughed.
My face burned. “Shut up,” I muttered.
“Why? He’s weird!”
“He’s not weird!” I yelled, tears streaming down my face, my hand balling into a fist at my side. “He’s my grandpa!”
So, the secret at school was out: my grandpa was our substitute teacher.
But, more significantly, it was the first time I’d referred to Perry as my grandpa.
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