It’s definitely a disease of motherhood.
I get up and go over to the woman.
“She’s
a good climber,” I say, and walk away.
The coffee shop is nearly empty.
3:30 already?
I shut my book.
My tea is cold.
Grandpa’s never late.
Maybe he said we’d meet at the house first.
I stand and bump the table.
My tea splashes onto the saucer.
I grab my stuff
and hurry out the door.
Something’s wrong.
He’s sitting on the porch swing.
“Oh.” I catch my breath. “There you are, Grandpa.
Shew. Sorry I’m late.
I thought we were meeting at the coffee shop.”
I sit down next to him.
“Should I go heat up some water?
Grandpa?”
Drool spills out his mouth,
and he slumps forward.
I catch him. “Grandpa!”
What is wrong?
I jump up
and lay him on his side
on the teetery swing.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!”
I run into the house,
trip over Mija,
and grab the phone.
9-1-1.
“Something’s wrong with my grandfather!”
“Please remain on the line.”
“I hear the sirens!”
“Do you see the ambulance?”
“Yes, they’re here, they’re here!”
I slam down the phone.
Two paramedics
rush up the walkway.
“Here! Here’s my grandpa.
He won’t answer me or anything!”
“Oxygen. And IV.”
They are going so fast.
I reach over the swing and hold his hand.
“Please step away,” one man tells me.
I jerk my hand back.
“His name?”
“Lawrence Leary,” I answer.
“Lawrence, can you hear me?”
Grandpa doesn’t wake up.
“Was he speaking when you found him?”
“No, no. He was sitting there.
And then he drooled.”
Wires.
Tubes.
Gurney.
Didn’t this all just happen to me?
“And your name?”
“Clare. Clare Moller.”
“Clare, you’ve done a good job. Are you here alone?”
“Yes. But I can call my parents.
Grandpa is my mom’s dad.”
They do more stuff to him.
I pick up Mija and squeeze her tight.
“We will be taking your grandfather
to Valley Hospital.”
They wheel Grandpa out to the ambulance.
“Wait!” I set the cat down and run after them.
The gurney slides into the ambulance.
They shut the back doors.
“I, I need to go with him.”
“Call your parents
and meet him at the hospital.
We need to leave immediately.”
The paramedic
gets into the vehicle.
EeeEeeeEeeee.
“Mom! Something’s wrong with Grandpa!”
“What do you mean, Clare?
What?”
“The ambulance took him—”
“Where? Where did they take Dad?”
“Valley Hospital. Mom, come get me first.
Mom, come get me!”
“Hold on, Clare. We’re on our way.”
Dad’s car pulls up.
I dive into the backseat.
“Go!” my mom and I yell.
We speed past neighbors
gathered on the sidewalk.
I didn’t even notice them earlier.
“Grandpa was sitting there,
not speaking,
and, and he slumped over,
and I caught him.”
Dad races through a yellow light.
“And I couldn’t call you right away
because the 9-1-1 lady said
I couldn’t hang up the phone.”
“You did a good job, Clare,” says Dad.
“Now take a breath.
It sounds like everything possible
is being done.”
Mom reaches back and grips my hand.
I gasp in a breath
and wipe my tears
on my shoulders.
Alone in the waiting room.
Mom and Dad are storming around
looking for Grandpa,
a nurse, or a doctor
to tell them what’s going on.
I’m out of the way here.
Next to the kiddie corner
filled with toys.
God,
I’ve never prayed
really.
But Grandpa has.
Since he can’t talk,
I’m trying.
God,
help Grandpa.
I don’t even know what’s wrong with him.
He slumped over and
then all that other stuff happened.
And now we’re here
and don’t even know where he’s at.
God, please, please
make Grandpa okay.
Amen.
I walk over to the water fountain.
There’s the part of the ER
where I was the other day.
All the curtained-off sections.
What happened
to those poor people
who were here the same time as me?
That little boy with his poked eye,
that man with his back pain?
A boy with his arm in a cast
is wheeled out of the spot I was in.
I take a long drink from the fountain.
I bet the others are all gone.
Back to their lives
that are different now
because they lost control.
Dad’s right.
We don’t have much control
over anything at all.
Sometimes we just get hurt,
or grow too tall,
or slump over on a porch swing.
The water sloshes around in my stomach.
The fish nip at each other
in the round bubble tank.
The cartoon characters on TV
chase each other.
I clench my hands.
This waiting room is worse
than the ER.
Here you don’t know
anything.
It’s weird not to call Rosella.
Normally, when something crazy
like this happens,
I’d find a phone
and call her cell.
She’s known Grandpa for ages.
I’m sure she cares about him.
It’s me she wouldn’t want to talk to.
Man, stuff is different now.
And it hurts.
Dad and Mom sit down next to me.
She takes my hand.
“Clare, Grandpa has had a stroke.”
“Stroke?”
“A blood vessel burst and the clot
moved to his brain.”
“Brain?”
She squeezes my hand.
Dad leans closer. “It looks like
some damage has been done.
But we don’t know how much yet.”
“His brain?”
Mom sniffles. “We’ll get through this.”
“Together,” says Dad.
“Yes,” the doctor says as he turns to Dad,
“there has been some damage.
Preliminary tests are not specific.
But there has been brain damage.”
Dad looks down at his shoes.
Mom
covers her face.
“So we’ll be keeping him in ICU
for observation.
He is stable at this point.”
I get up and grab Dad’s hand.
“Can we see him?”
“Our policy is only family.
Two visitors at a time.”
“Fine,” says Dad. “Clare,
wait here,
and we’ll be back in a moment.”
Mom and Dad follow the doctor
down the hallway.
Hey, I’m family too!
I’m the one that’s been living with him!
Me!
I hate the clock.
I hate the TV.
I hate the stupid fish.
It’s my grandpa down there.
I
should get to see him.
Ten minutes later
I walk down the hallway
with my head up.
I pass one nurses’ station.
No one says anything.
The sign points to the ICU.
I push through another set of doors.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks.
“No.”
I walk with purpose
by the hanging curtains
separating beds.
Another nurse steps in front of me.
“I’m sorry. You need to tell me
who you are looking for.”
“My grandfather, Lawrence Leary.”
She checks her clipboard.
“He’s around the corner.”
“Thank you.” I go to where she pointed.
Mom and Dad are down at the next station.
I peek around the curtain.
“Grandpa!”
I hurry to the bed.
There’re machines
everywhere,
and each has a bunch of wires
hooked to him with sticky circles.
Beep. Beep. Beep fills the space.
A little oxygen thing
is stuck in his nose.
“Grandpa?”
He doesn’t move or open his eyes.
He is small in the big white bed
and looks weird without his glasses.
I slip my hand around a few wires
and rub his shoulder.
I bend over and kiss his cheek.
Besides the rubbing alcohol
and other mediciney stuff,
I smell his lilac aftershave.
He’s still my grandpa.
“Clare!” says Mom.
I jump.
She, Dad, and a nurse
push into the space.
“It was taking too long.
I was waiting and waiting.”
“That’s okay.” Dad puts his arm
around me.
“One of you will need to leave,” the nurse says.
She turns away and checks a machine.
“Right,” says Dad.
“How about Clare and I go home
and you stay here, Martha.”
“Yes. That sounds good.”
“But I want to stay,” I whine.
“No, we can take care of a few things
while all the testing is being done.
Your mother will call us if there’s a change.”
“Sure.” Mom moves out of the nurse’s way
and gives me a hug.
I’ve never heard her so quiet.
“I, I’ll make a dinner for us,” I say.
“That would be great, Clare.”
She hugs me again
and gives Dad a kiss.
“Bye, Grandpa,” I whisper
and follow Dad out.
It’s dark.
Dad drives the speed limit.
“I don’t know anything about strokes, Dad.”
“I think we’ll be learning more
than we ever wanted to.”
“What’s the best it could be
and what’s the worst?”
“Don’t think about the worst, Clare.”
“Come on, Dad.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“Well, the doctor said the best would be
he’d slowly return to normal.”
“Yeah, and—”
“The worst would be speech impairment,
inability to walk.”
Why did I ask?
I pull out Dad’s microwave dinner.
His spaghetti looks a little dry and skinny.
I put a slice of American cheese on top.
That’s better.
I load my macaroni and cheese.
It twirls in circles and bubbles.
I bet a taste of this
would cheer Grandpa up.
It’s his favorite too.
Nothing new from Mom.
“Go ahead to bed,” says Dad.
I get out of Grandpa’s chair.
Mija leaps onto it
and curls up.
Does she know?
I hug Dad
and drag my feet to my room.
The book and magazine I bought earlier
are on my nightstand.
Dad must have put them there.
I don’t even remember
getting them into the house.
I drag my finger
across the magazine.
I’m worried about not learning to dance,
and Grandpa may never walk again?
All my piled up tears
come out through the night.
This is so horrible
for Grandpa.
It could mean
no walking.
That would mean
no hiking.
No skiing.
Ever again.
No talking!
What then
for him?
I sit on the edge of the couch
and grip my tea cup.
Mom comes in from the kitchen.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” Dad rubs his morning whiskers.
“Fill us in.”
“Well.” She pushes Mija off
and sits down in Grandpa’s chair.
The cat hisses and disappears down the hall.
“I took a cab
like we decided, Dwight,
at around five this morning.
I’m completely exhausted,
so if I don’t make sense
let me know.
Dad’s paralyzed
down his right side.
Most likely permanently.”
“And his speech is impaired
because of the damage to the left side of his brain.
He probably won’t ever be able
to communicate again verbally.”
Dad reaches over and holds her hand.
Mom takes a breath. “The good news is that
he’s fully conscious this morning
and seemed to recognize me.
Half his face smiled.”
She starts bawling.
Dad rubs her back.
I have to get out of here.
The porch is steaming
from the early morning rain.
The sun bakes the wood,
and the water mists up.
This can’t be true, Grandpa.
I flop into the swing.
The mist splits and twists
around me as I rock.
All the sunflowers are facing the sun.
The whole garden is shining.
How can Grandpa be paralyzed,
not be able to talk,
how can he not be here to see
his beautiful garden
this morning?
I wander back inside.
Mom isn’t crying anymore.
She’s at the dining table
crunched up over some paper.
Dad is reading over her shoulder. “Yes.
That too.
”
Mom clenches the pencil and snaps it.
“All these changes,” she groans.
“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”
Dad massages her shoulders.
“Mom,” I say.
They both turn to me.
“What, besides Grandpa,
is changing?”
Mom pats the chair next to her.
“Sit down, Clare.
We need to discuss
everything.”
I sit.
“Clare,” says Dad,
“we need to make some fast changes.”
“Like?”
“Your grandpa
is going to need constant care.
At least for a while.”
Mom lines up the pencil pieces
and covers the break
with her shaking thumb and finger.
“I should be focusing on Dad,
but my mind is racing about us.”
Dad sits down next to her.
“It’s okay.
We’re all affected.
We have to look
at our angle as well.”
Mom rubs her temple.
“You’re right, Dwight.
So.
What I see
is the three of us
move here.”
“Whoa. Couldn’t Grandpa move in with us
or something?” I ask.
“There isn’t enough apartment space, Clare.
Besides, you were looking
into living here before.”
“That was before,” I whisper.
“What?” Dad asks.
“Nothing.”
“We’ll hire a caregiver
for during the day,” says Mom,
“and finally,
the move will mean
responsibility for this house,
which isn’t that much different from home,
but there’s also the garden.”
“I can do that,” I say. “The garden, I mean.
Really. I’ve been helping Grandpa
in the yard since I came.”
“That’s the spirit, Clare,” says Dad.
He takes Mom’s hand.
She rests her head against him.
“Our lease is almost up at the apartment.”
“Hmm,” Dad agrees
and ruffles through the pile of papers.
“It’s a good thing
your father gave you power of attorney
a few years back.
It’s going to make everything a lot easier.”
“Right.” Mom’s sigh ruffles her bangs.
“Oh, and Clare.”
She turns to me.
“It will mean
a change of schools.”
“That’s not a big deal.
It’s not like I had
a ton of friends or anything.”
“Well, you’ll get to be with Rosella at least.”
“Yeah.”
So what?
I shut my door behind me.
I’ve always wanted to live in a house.
And I love Grandpa’s.
We’ve lived in so many different apartments
my whole life
since Mom likes to move.
Starting fresh in new buildings,
over and over.
So now
we are right back where she started.