“But think about it.”
“What?” Mom asks.
“She’d really like the fact that
you’re finally going to keep your room clean.”
We all laugh.
“So The Muppet Movie poster
is coming down?” I ask.
“Hey, I like Kermit,” Dad cuts in.
“Okay, you two.” Mom stands
and clears the table.
“Maybe Kermit can stay up,
but the Bee Gees have to come down.”
“Definitely,” I say with a giggle.
Getting piles of forms signed.
Getting lectures from nurses
on life at home after a stroke.
Getting booklets, instructions,
and pamphlets.
Getting all Grandpa’s stuff together.
Mom getting him dressed.
Dad getting the van.
Let’s get Grandpa out of here!
I slide the van door open.
Dad hits the controls and lowers the chairlift.
The attendant rolls Grandpa onto the metal
and locks his wheelchair in place. “There you go.”
Grandpa’s chair rises in the air.
He clenches the armrest.
“It’s okay, Grandpa,” I call.
I hurry around and jump in on the other side.
His chair slides in next to my seat.
“See?” I reach over and hold his hand.
“Let’s blow this place.”
He grunts.
Mom gets in the front.
Dad starts the engine.
“Good-bye, hospital!” I shout.
Grandpa raises a celebration fist.
The long freight train rumbles past.
Dad inches up to the blinking crossing arm.
“How do you like your new wheels, Lawrence?”
“Grgh,” says Grandpa.
Dad turns around in his seat. “We got a good deal
trading in your car.
This baby is smooth.”
“Hey, Smooth. The train’s gone,” says Mom.
Dad turns back and guns it over the tracks.
I wink at Grandpa. “Smooth.”
He’s sitting in his wheelchair on the porch
and crying.
Oh, what am I supposed to do?
Mom and Dad are inside
working on paperwork or something.
“Here, Grandpa.” He takes the tissue
and swipes at his face.
“Let me.” I take it back
and wipe his tears and nose.
It feels huge compared to mine.
Weird.
“Come on, Grandpa.
You’re home.
Everything is going to be okay.
It’s just that things are different.”
He looks up at me.
“You get your same room at least.
And we get to live with you all the time.
It’s only a little more crowded
than you are used to.”
He grunts.
“Did you see I moved the daylilies?”
He almost smiles.
“I didn’t want to lose them
when the ramp was built.
So I dug the bulbs up and replanted
them. It looks like they are taking
to the new spot.
That’s not so easy sometimes.”
“Mija’s missed you
so much.”
I pick her up.
Grandpa smiles.
“She pretty much
stayed in your chair
the whole time
you were in the hospital.”
I set her down
in Grandpa’s lap.
He curls his good arm
around her.
The cat licks
his paralyzed hand.
Mom joins us on the porch.
“Be right back,” Dad calls from his car.
“Where’s he going, Mom?”
“Running to the store for a few things.
She wheels Grandpa into the house.
The extra little slope
the ramp guys made
makes it easy for the chair to glide into the house.
Mom pushes Grandpa to the window
and puts his brake on.
“Your friends
are coming over to hold your prayer group here.”
Grandpa smiles and smooths his shirt.
“Bruce—
the one I met at the hospital—
he said they’d be willing to meet here regularly.”
“Is that okay, Grandpa?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’ll put some water on for tea,” says Mom.
“They should be here within a half hour.”
I follow Mom to the kitchen.
“Does his group need to come now?”
“We need to create
some normalcy for him, Clare.
Bruce told me
Dad’s prayer group meets
the first Monday of the month.
Seeing his friends will help.
“I don’t know, Mom.
It seems too fast.
I mean, we just got him home
a couple hours ago.
He must be tired.
What’s it going to feel like
to be stared at by all of them
at once?
He’s so different now,
and not like them—”
“Clare.” Mom rubs my shoulder.
“It’s okay. These are his friends.”
I take a big breath. “Right.”
As soon as Dad got back from the store,
he and Mom set out snacks.
Then they both disappeared.
Figures.
I stare at this woman
with super-stiff platinum hair,
and oversized white, white teeth
that click.
She’s gobbling me up.
“Oh, yes. You’re the dancer.
Your grandfather always speaks of you.”
“I’m not really a dancer. I didn’t make it into—”
“Now, now.
I’ve heard far too much about you.
Your grandfather says
you feel the music.
You move from your heart.”
“Yeah. Well. Um.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Clare.
I need to join the others.
We’re starting our meeting.
Did you want to join—
No? Well, that’s okay, dear.
I’ll look forward to chatting with you
another time.”
I slip away to the bathroom
and splash cold water on my face.
My intestines are braided in knots.
I swallow hard to keep my stomach down.
Why did Grandpa ever say all that stuff?
No way I’m a dancer.
What do I do every day?
Stuff around the house.
Stuff for Grandpa.
I’m a
maid-gardener-nurse.
What’s Rosella doing every day?
Dancing in City Ballet.
Taking a moment
to puke
after class.
Taking a break
in the coffee shop
to laugh at people
who didn’t make it.
Bottom line: dancing.
She’s a dancer.
What about Elton?
Dancing in the company.
He does have to work in the bookstore.
But big deal.
That’s not like babysitting your Grandpa.
Elton probably doesn’t even think
of me anymore.
Why would he?
He’s busy being a dancer.
Okay.
Get a grip.
It’s one old lady.
Who cares what she thinks?
No big deal.
I’m moving on
from ballet,
from my old apartment,
from my old school,
from so-called friends.
I’m moving on.
I just can’t think of
where to go.
I peek around the corner.
What’s a prayer meeting like anyway?
Ballet lady has her back to me.
That’s good.
Everyone’s so smiley
and chatty.
Most of them are pretty old
like Grandpa.
Whoa.
The one lady with cat eyeglasses
is dabbing Grandpa’s handkerchief
to his mouth.
That’s pretty nice.
Huh.
They seem to really like him.
Even though he’s so different now.
That one guy, Bruce,
is reading from a Bible.
Now they are talking about
what to pray for.
One man
says to pray for Grandpa.
That’s nice.
Now they are praying.
And praying.
And praying.
Done finally.
What’s with the harmonica?
Oh. Hymns.
Huh. They don’t sound half bad
if you like that kind of music.
Grandpa sure seems to like it,
the way he’s rocking and smiling.
Everyone’s lining up
to shake his left hand
So that’s a prayer meeting.
It doesn’t seem
all that strange.
“What an interesting painting.”
Bruce clips his pen
into his shirt pocket.
He peers more closely
at the picture by the door.
“Do you know the story behind it, Clare?”
“Sure.
Grandpa’s told me tons
of times. It’s the land his grandfather owned
before he came to America.
It’s back in Switzerland.”
“How nice. It’s delightful.
Well, I’d best be off.”
I shut the door behind him.
I’m glad I remembered the story
about the painting.
Sure, Mom might have known about it too,
but there’s probably stuff she doesn’t know.
Things Grandpa only told me.
I turn around and bump into his wheelchair.
He reaches up
for my hand.
I remembered about the painting.
But what about other stories
he never got to tell?
Those I’ll never get to hear.
Dad suddenly appears
and pushes Grandpa to the window.
“You can wave
as your friends leave, Lawrence,” he says.
“Clare, come help
with dinner,” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“So, what did you think of that?” she asks.
“Seriously.”
“It seemed nice enough, I guess.”
She passes me lettuce and tomatoes.
“Would you work on the salad?
Fix a big one.
I’m really hungry.”
“Sure.” I get out a paring knife.
“Well, I hope that’s sufficient for him,” she says.
“That’s all I can say, Clare. Really.”
“What do you mean?”
She pounds the cube steak with a mallet.
“I hope hosting
the prayer meeting once a month
is enough for Dad.
We don’t want to have to take him
to church every week.”
The knife breaks through the thin tomato skin.
Seeds spill out along the blade.
“But that’s really important to Grandpa.”
“I know it is.” She slams the steak.
“But we all need to give in a little, Clare.
You, your father, and I
don’t need to join the church.
I had enough in my childhood.”
“Yeah. But he looked so happy.
Mom, I could push him there.
I wouldn’t mind.
It’s only a couple blocks.”
Bam. Bam.
“It’s not convenient for us.
We need some normalcy too.”
Convenient for us? What about Grandpa?
He’s already giving up
his book club and Bible study.
I mince the tomato into tiny bits.
Mom lies down on the couch.
“Moving Dad around is exhausting.”
“Yeah, but he’s
even more tired
with the excitement of coming home
and the prayer meeting.”
“You’re right, Clare.”
I flop on the floor
and stretch into a split.
Oh, that feels great.
My muscles are already tight
from not taking class.
Mom looks over
and raises an eyebrow.
“That’s strange to see.”
What am I doing?
I pull my legs in
and cross them.
“What?”
“You doing ballet.”
“I wasn’t. I just wasn’t thinking
for a minute.”
I’m
an idiot.
“I know things have been
completely hectic,” says Mom.
Here we go.
“But have you given any thought
to yourself, honey?”
“Not really. We’ve been too busy.”
“I can give you that.
But
are you sleeping well,
having bad dreams,
missing classes—”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Are you—”
“Fine.”
“Okay. I only want you to know
I’m here for you.”
There’s no doubt about that.
Sometimes I don’t want to talk about
every little thing.
Even if it was okay
talking to her about the audition.
Sometimes
it’s nice to keep a bit to yourself.
Stuff maybe you haven’t even figured out yet.
Be your own person that way.
I can’t explain that
to her.
She’s already talking again.
“It was such a big dream,
and now with Dad’s stroke,
I don’t want to neglect you, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine.”
She humphs.
“Okay, Clare.
If you say so.
I may not be fine.
Not that anyone’s asked.
I may be worn down
to a bloody nub,
but I’m glad
you
are fine.”
She crosses her arms.
Someone’s cranky tonight … .
“That shower chair worked well.
I got him washed,
dressed, and into bed.” Dad
collapses at the end of the couch.
Mom plops her feet onto his lap.
“Thanks, Dwight.
Being a man,
Dad’s got to be more comfortable
with you showering him than me.”
“I hope it saves some of his dignity.”
“Yes.” Mom covers her eyes
with her arm. “I can’t get over
how much work this is.
We are wiped
out after one day.
But everything will be easier
when we get assistance.
We should have a worker
by midweek, right?”
“Right.”
Mom sighs. “If the daily routine is this hard,
imagine what an undertaking it will be
to get him to physical therapy next week.
We definitely need help.”
“Will the worker be a man, Dad?”
“No, I think the service is sending a woman.”
“That’s not going to feel so great
to Grandpa.”
“Well,” says Mom, “we’ll try to make Dad
feel comfortable when we can.
Like your dad showering him.
But we need help, Clare.
Anything, from anyone,
at this point
will be appreciated.”
“Okay already,” I say.
Dad pokes my leg
and massages Mom’s foot.
“Sounds like we could all use
some extra sleep,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s crab city around here.”
Mom gives me a look.
I get up
and hug the bloody nub anyway, then Dad.
Poor Grandpa.
What man
would want some strange woman
to help him in the bathroom
and stuff?
Who would want anyone to help them
in the bathroom and stuff?
I step into the tub.
Huh. My feet don’t burn now.
I sit down and prop them up on the wall.
Wow. All the blisters are healing over.
My feet still look gross,
but mostly they’re bumpy, red, and callused.
That’s amazing.
I dunk them back underwater.
Things heal fast.
Well,
some things.
Other things never get better.
Grandpa’s paralyzed side of his body
still grosses me out.
It’s like he’s not even in that dead part.
I don’t like to touch the pasty skin.
What’s it feel like to him?
What’s it feel like
not to be able to feel?
I slide my head underwater.
I can’t imagine.
Grandpa squints in the morning sun.
Mom tucks a blanket on his lap
and turns to me.
“I’ll register you at the school,
pick up Dad’s medications,
and be back before you know it.”
Mom drops her keys on the sidewalk.
I bend down and hand them to her.
“Are you sure,
absolutely sure
you’ll be fine?” she asks.
“Yeah, Mom. Trust me.
I can be responsible.”
Grandpa grunts and waves to her.
“See? He agrees.” I urge her toward
the car. “Dad took him to the bathroom
before he left. You’ll be back
before he needs to go again.
I’m going to wheel him around the block.
Maybe stop for tea at the coffee shop.”
“That sounds like too much, Clare.”
“Mom, I pushed him around the hospital
a lot. It won’t be any different.”