What’s in a name?

 Recently, on a Friday, I was watching The Princess Diaries and at one point during the film, Princess Mia is practicing her public speaking by reciting William Shakespeare’s famous words: “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name wouldst smell as sweet.” I never really understood what that meant, even after reading Romeo and Juliet in ninth grade. I started thinking about it, however, the next morning, over breakfast. 

 

My kitchen doesn’t use “good mornings”.
“How did you sleep?” my father asked me, dragging through the kitchen in his plaid pajama pants.
“Fine.” I replied, pouring steaming water into my bowl of oatmeal.
“I did too, you know, pretty well…but I woke up a couple times of course.”
I wondered why “of course”, but before I could silently ponder his pessimism, my father continued, “Your grandmother’s coming over today.”
“Oh, god.” I sighed annoyingly; we have to take Grandma every Saturday. One glance at my father, and I instantly realized I had said the wrong thing.
But my father did not sigh back. He didn’t give me a ‘look’. He just bent a little further over the coffee pot.
I broke the silence, “Do we seriously not have any bread?” digging my hand deeper into the pantry.
My father looked up from his precious coffee grounds, “You mean there’s none in the freezer?”
“Well, it would be frozen” I said.
“It’ll thaw. Did you check the freezer?”
I pulled out the freezer drawer, sifting through the boxes of Boca burgers and pizza bagels. “No, we don’t have any.”
Bent over his Starbucks Extra Dark Roast, he asked again, “Well, did you check the freezer?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll go downstairs and get some.”
Frozen bread. I reached for the English muffins instead, securing the last one for myself. My father’s shuffles came in to earshot.
“I got some English muffins, too, I thought we might need them.” His forehead was wrinkled with worry as he gingerly placed them on the refrigerator shelf next to the cranberry juice. “There they are,” he added, patting them gently with his hand, “If you need them, they’re here.”

“Hi grandma!” I said, careful to stress ‘grandma’ so she might have a hope of remembering who I was.
“I need to go home, my husband…he’s probably looking for me.” Grandma said, fingering her wedding ring on her wrinkled hand.
My grandfather’s face fell, but his expression quickly changed to frustration. “What are you talking about, Louise?! This is home!”
She looked at me quizzically, and took my hand in hers.
My grandfather turned to my father, “I was doin’ some lawn work out in the back the other day, an’ when I came back inside, she’s gone! So I get in the truck and go aroun’ the neighborhood, and I find her way the hell out on Route 50! I said, ‘Louise, next time you leave the house I’m gonna call the police on ya!’ She just keeps wanderin’ off.” Grampa shook his head.
“I told you, Dad, you should install an alarm system or something.” My father walked off with Grampa to discuss this idea, while I waited with Grandma.
“How are things with, uh…how are…your…the…you see…something…something, you know, will come along…and sometimes…they’re better…” Grandma trailed off incoherently.
“Yes, grandma,” I smiled.
“I love you. You’re so nice to me,” she said squeezing my arm.

I sat next to Grandma in the backseat of the car on the ride back to the house. The car veered slightly to the left and her hand impulsively grabbed my knee for support. Afterwards, an embarrassed look crept on to her face and she removed it quickly, “Oh, I’m sorry, you know, but when it goes like…” she moved her arms and shifted to the left to show the car rolling as it rounded a turn, “I need to, you know…” her hand hovered above my knee for support, “I just don’t want you to think that I…” she laughed and I just smiled.

Back at the house, I washed dishes with Grandma offering to help about every two minutes, about as long as it took for her to forget she even asked.
“Can you pass me that bowl, Grandma?” I pointed to the dish on the table.
She looked at me puzzlingly, smiling an air-headed smile.
“The bowl, Grandma?” I reminded her. “You know what…never mind.” I said, smiling and reaching for it myself.
My father walked in, sweaty, dirty, and reeking of mulch.
“Can you go and get a plastic bag from the garage, Mom?”
Grandma stood there dumbly, smiling a little at me.
“The garage, Mom, the garage,” my father repeated.
She looked from me to my father with a puzzled expression.
“Mom, do you know where the garage is? The garage.” He talked to her like she was a dog or someone with a hearing aid.
She looked at me again, then patted his arm, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Ma.” My father sighed and walked to get his plastic bag. Grandma started towards me. “He just…I…the…” and she laughed.
And I looked at her. Really looked at her. She had gained weight since the days when she made chicken-noodle soup and jell-o and went for walks every day. Her blue zip-up jacket was bulging at the pockets with things she had collected: napkins, silverware from various restaurants, her shoes. This is a woman who doesn’t know what a bowl is. She doesn’t know where the garage is. She doesn’t even know where she is. She doesn’t know who her husband is. But she knows what love is.

“Let’s go watch a movie, Grandma.” I took her hand, and we sat down to the comic relief of Anne Hathaway and The Princess Diaries.

Recently, on a Saturday, I was once again forced to recall Mr. Shakespeare’s lovely words of wisdom. This time, though, I understood them. For my grandmother does not need names. I am still the same person to my grandmother, even though she does not know my name and hasn’t for years. Even the label of ‘granddaughter’ is forgotten to her, but she can still love me. She has forgotten how to tie her shoes, how to carry on a conversation, and how to make jell-o, but she will never forget how to love.