Memory feeds imagination.  - unknown

Hunchback Girl

When I was young, we lived next door to a silver-haired, hunchbacked woman. "Grandma Bloyer," we called her--though she bore no relation to us. I remember her distinctly, for she barely stood taller than I was.

Grandma Bloyer had spent most of her life working as a nurse. She had met all kinds of people, and her smart sense of humor served her well. In my mind's eye, I can still see my mother sitting at Grandma Bloyer's massive dining room table with a cup of coffee, chuckling over a story and shaking her head in disbelief at what a character Grandma Bloyer was.

My mother used to tell me that as a toddler, I displayed a peculiar knack for persistence, prompting Grandma Bloyer to dub me "Miss Determined." Apparently, my get-it-done attitude permeated my bedtime prayers, which ended with a childish and emphatic "A-MAN!" With her quick sense  of humor, Grandma Bloyer would mutter, "You'll get him, Katie. Don't worry!"

One evening, Grandma Bloyer came over to stay with me while the rest of my family was away. I have no recollection of where my parents and my older sister and younger brother would have gone without me, but I do remember having Grandma Bloyer's full attention. How often does that happen for a middle child? We played a game of checkers. She let me win, and she made me feel important that I'd done so.

I'm sure that the memory of Grandma Bloyer prompted my creation of Grandmother Upstairs on some conscious or subconscious level. I suspect that most people underestimate the magnetic attraction between the very old and the very young. The boundless energy and curiosity of youth fascinate and delight old folks: they bring back fond memories of being lithe and carefree. Conversely, the very young devour the attention and seemingly infinite knowledge that the very old bestow on them: they need the encouragement and validation of someone accomplished.

Even before she met Grandmother Upstairs, Penny learned about her from the loose-lipped doorman at the hotel where the old woman resided:

One of our best clients – a wealthy old woman who keeps to herself most of the time. Rather plain and a little deaf, I think. You see how tiny and hunched over she is, but she is rather spry for all that—an amazing old woman. Most everyone knows her as Madame Qiao. A flighty old woman—I mean that she comes and goes at odd intervals.

Long before I finished the first draft of my novel, I asked a friend with three children if she and her family would be willing to read and comment on the story as it was shaped at the time. They did so and informed me that the story line dragged at first; however, after they met Grandmother Upstairs, the children didn't want to stop reading:



The cat and the girl continued to climb until they reached the top flight. On the eighth floor, the sixteenth flight–the very top of the stairwell–Qiao Miao led Penny to a pair of large carved wooden doors on the landing. The doors swished open at their approach, and Penny was swept into the waiting arms of Grandmother Upstairs.

“Well done, my dear!” the old woman exclaimed, gazing fondly at Qiao Miao. She hugged Penny warmly as if she were greeting an old friend. Relief flooded through Penny’s being. She clung to the old woman, who stood no taller than Penny and was nearly as thin, except for her hunchback.

“Now, dearie! Oh, you must be exhausted, dear girl, so we’ll save the conversation for the morning. You’ve eaten, yes?”

And so Penny steps into another world and begins to unravel the mystery of her mother's absence and her family's secret ties to the land of Hoi. In Grandmother Upstairs, she finds a valuable friend and ally. She finds a woman who looks at the world from a different perspective, a woman who knows with a certainty things that others have dismissed or denied. The power of their friendship permeates the story.