Thank You for All Things (7 page)

Milo shrugs. I scoot alongside him and hiss into his ear, “You idiot! If Grandpa is a McGowan too, it can only mean one of two things. Either our father was Mom’s first cousin or we’re bastards. I’d bet on the second—even though inbreeding often produces a genius or two among the idiots.”

Milo shrugs again, then fiddles to perfectly align the books stacked on his lap.

“We’re bastards. I can’t believe it.”

“So? Lots of couples cohabitate and have children and never marry.”

“Yeah, well, Oliver Twist was a bastard, and look where that got him.”

I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with Milo—not surprising—so I let the topic rest and I look above him, where an 8×10 photograph hangs in one of those cheap,
black metal document frames. In the photo is a man holding a sheet cake that says,
Happy Retirement
, and there are men and women surrounding him, holding up beer glasses.

I kneel on the arm of the sofa so I’m higher and stare at the picture that has to be him, my grandfather. He has broad shoulders and dark hair that sits like chocolate frosting, thick and swirled over the top of his head, exposing a wide forehead like Mom’s. He’s wearing a dark suit. His eyes are indeed shaped like mine, but they look more so like Mom’s. His broad smile looks like no one’s. Well, except maybe for the man on the infomercial.

I leave Milo and go into the kitchen, where Aunt Jeana is busy taking brown bottles down from the cupboard. Chico is trembling at her feet. One by one, she sets the bottles on the counter, reciting their names and times per day Grandpa needs to take them. “And don’t forget his aspirin every day.” There is a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter and chopped hamburger sizzling in a small fry pan on the stove. As Aunt Jeana lists the medications, she pauses now and then to glance into the pan.

Chico has been yipping at me since I entered the kitchen, and Aunt Jeana scoops him up and kisses the top of his bony head, then whispers, “Hush now,” into his paper-thin ear. He stops barking, his bottom snaggletooth catching on his upper lip.

“Sam’s napping. That’s pretty much all he does anymore. I moved him into that room,” she says, pointing toward the door that’s slightly ajar, just around the wide, arched doorway connecting the kitchen and living room. “He couldn’t go up and down the stairs if he tried at this point. He doesn’t talk much, but he will answer you if you ask him questions. It sure has been lonely around here,
though. I’m just glad I had my Chico and my programs.” She nods toward the small TV propped on the counter, where some woman with heavy makeup and dark roots is addressing herself at normal volume, while a mannequin-perfect man stands inches behind her, his head tilted as he ponders her thoughts, even though he should be able to hear every word she’s saying. On the floor under the TV are two ratty, hard suitcases and a fluffy dog bed that looks like a hat an old Russian man would wear in a blizzard.

“I’ve tacked his medication instructions and his schedule here,” Aunt Jeana says, tapping the paper Scotch-taped to the inside of the cupboard door. “He likes his coffee black and some cinnamon in his oatmeal. And, oh, no celery in his food. He hates celery. Even chopped fine, he can taste it.” Oma has a slight smile on her face, and I know that she’s wondering how it is that Aunt Jeana could have forgotten that she lived with the man for years, so no doubt knows these things already. “Oh, and watch it, because he likes to turn on the stove and walk off.”

Jeana keeps rattling off instructions as Oma circles the room. Oma stops and touches a clock in the shape of a rooster. Mom doesn’t move. She stands still, her arms wrapped around her middle, bunching her shirt so that a peek of skin shows. As I watch her, I wonder how it can be that Mom, five foot six and thirty-three years old, can look dwarfed and as young as me in this house.

“Oh, and watch the back door. I don’t know what the fascination is with that shed back there, but twice now he’s gotten loose and I’ve found him standing at the door, looking confused. He still thinks he can drive too, though where he thinks he’s going is beyond me. I hid his keys on the back of the top shelf, right here,” she adds in a whisper.

Aunt Jeana plucks a chunk of steaming meat out of the pan and pops it into her mouth, chewing it as she rattles off more instructions and excuses why she needs to leave today. Besides Chico’s brain that needs scanning, she lists reasons such as: “My plants have probably all died by now,” and, “I haven’t mailed back my Book of the Month Club card, and I don’t always care for the featured selections.” She pauses, plucks the chewed meat from her tongue, and puts it into Chico’s mouth. He gums it happily. “He’s missing so many teeth that it’s hard for him to chew,” she explains when she looks up and sees that we’re all staring at her. Well, Oma and I are, that is. Mom is turned away, gagging.

“Which reminds me: Sam is having problems swallowing, so you need to—”

“Please don’t tell us that we need to prechew his food,” Mom interrupts.

“—feed him soft foods,” Aunt Jeana finishes her sentence, and her eyes squint tight. “No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. But I’d hope that if your father needed it done, you’d do it for him, simply because he’s your father, if nothing else. That man raised you and paid your way through college. And he’s leaving all of this to you.” Aunt Jeana waves her bony hand, encompassing the room, so dramatically that one would think she was motioning to a whole kingdom.

“What time does he go to bed at night?” Oma asks, to distract her, I’m sure.

“Actually,” Mom says, facing Aunt Jeana, “he didn’t.”

“Mom said Grandpa Sam wouldn’t stop to give her water if—” I say, and Oma glides over and reaches around my shoulder, past my cheek, and pats my mouth shut before I can finish the sentence.

“What time does he turn in for the night?” Oma asks again.

But Aunt Jeana won’t be distracted. Her beady eyes are boring into Mom’s face like stingers as she tucks another clump of hamburger into her mouth. “Didn’t what?” she asks Mom.

“Support me through college. He didn’t give me a damn red cent for school. And
he
isn’t leaving this to me, you are. I’m curious as to why.”

Aunt Jeana grabs the meat from her mouth and holds it out to Chico. There are little gray specks left on her tongue, like scattered mouse turds, when she talks. “You are his daughter,” Aunt Jeana says. “In spite of everything. And considering that you or your children wouldn’t—”

“And Clay is his son,” Mom interrupts. “Don’t such fine riches typically go to the firstborn son?

“But we know why you’ve chosen me instead of him, Aunt Jeana. This place holds no sentimental value for Clay—not that it does for me. No monetary value either. This dump wouldn’t be fit to be an outhouse on one of his properties. Clay would have absolutely no use for it, but I’m sure you already know that, because no doubt you’ve already offered it to him. And you certainly wouldn’t want it for yourself, it being so far from
Choke-o
’s doctor. As for selling it for the cash, you’d have to rid it of all this worthless junk, list it with a broker … It would be work. And you don’t need the money, since Uncle Willie left you richer than God, so why would you bother?”

Aunt Jeana gasps, and Oma hurries to her. She gently pinches Chico’s skeletal paw between her fingers and bobs it. “Ohhhh, poor little darling. His eyes do look a bit dazed, don’t they?”

Aunt Jeana’s attention turns from Mom to her dog. She
cups her hand under Chico’s chin and lifts his head to peer into his protruding eyes. He makes choking noises, so she lowers it.

“We should let you go now, Jeana. Didn’t you say you fly out tonight?”

“Yes. I’ll have to wait around for a few hours, but I want to get this rental car back or they’ll charge me for another day.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re eager to get this poor little thing back home to his doctor. Thank you so much for the instructions and for the cookies. They smell delicious. Did you leave your phone number so I can call you when … well, you know.”

“On the inside of the cupboard door where his medications are kept,” Aunt Jeana says. “Oh, and I washed a load of his bedding, but I didn’t have the chance to throw it in the dryer yet.”

“I’ll take care of it, Jeana. Thank you for everything. Lucy, help me take Aunt Jeana’s things to her car, please.” Oma hands me Chico’s bed.

“We should get going too,” Mom announces after Aunt Jeana leaves. Mom is blinking her eyes, and she rubs at them with her fingertips. Oma watches her, and I watch Oma, silently pleading with her to do something, and hoping that Sky Dreamer is right, because I don’t want to leave just yet.

“Are you coming down with a migraine?” Oma asks.

“Just a little haloing,” Mom says.

“Good heavens, Tess. You can’t drive with a migraine. You’re tired too. Stay the night, at least.”

Mom tips her head toward the living room. “He’s getting anxious,” she says, motioning to where Milo is fidgeting on the couch.

“It’s because he has no work space,” I tell them.

“Then let’s give him a place to spread his things out,” Oma says. She hurries into the living room, where Milo is still sitting stiffly, fidgeting as he reads. “Come in the kitchen, Milo,” Oma says. “You can spread your things out on the table, just like at home.”

Oma ignores Mom’s protests as she helps Milo get situated, then she asks me if I’d like a tour of the house. I nod.

Oma opens the basement door. “We’ll start at the bottom so I can get that bedding in the dryer and work our way up,” she says.

I follow Oma downstairs. The basement is poorly lit, with a bare bulb hanging near the washer and dryer. Webs of dust dangle from the back of the wooden steps.

Two of the walls have wooden shelves attached to the concrete blocks, mostly empty but for a few jars of foods floating in cloudy juice. Another wall is bare, and the fourth is tacked with corkboard and a few hanging tools. While Oma pulls ropes of sheets out of the washing machine, I spot a sled in a darkened corner, propped against the wall.

“A sled!” I shout, and hurry to it. Oma’s voice follows me. “That belonged to your uncle Clay and your mother,” she says.

I bend over to admire the sled. Before Uncle Clay’s wife started sending photo Christmas cards, they sent us regular store-bought cards. One year they sent us one with a picture of children dressed in Christmas reds and greens on the front, sledding down a hill. I kept that card tacked on my wall until it fell down and disappeared behind my bed. Thinking of it now, I wonder if my longing to be a figure skater and my longing to sled like the children in that picture doesn’t stem from some deeper-rooted longing for winter
snows and ice, and if so, why? It’s not as though I’ve never seen snow before. All winter long it’s tossed past our apartment windows, and when we come and go, I see it fall and turn to brown slush under tires.

I stroke the dusty wood of the sled. There’s not a nick anywhere on it, and the red lettering on the seat is still glossy under the dust. “It looks brand-new. Did they even sled with it?”

Oma shrugs. “I imagine they did. Eventually.” It is an odd comment, but one I don’t have time to probe her about, because Oma is heading up the stairs. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

We leave the dryer whirring and go up the stairs. I’ve seen the kitchen and living room, and even though I still haven’t seen what’s behind the three other doors off them, where I want to go next is upstairs. “Can I see Mom’s old room first?” I ask.

“Yes. As soon as I check on your grandpa.”

Oma opens Grandpa’s door only slightly when she peeks inside to check on him. I tuck my head under her arm and take a peek into the room, which is darkened by heavy shades. Grandpa is only a long, snoring mound on the bed. Oma shuts the door before I can get a good look, saying that we’ll not disturb him. “Come on, I’ll show you the upstairs, and your mother’s room, now.”

Mom and Milo are settled at the table when we pass through the kitchen. Milo has his books and notebooks open and now looks as comfortable as he does at home. Mom looks anything but comfortable, though she’s got her laptop open and is typing. As Oma and I head up the stairs, Mom calls after me, “Don’t get too cozy here, Lucy. We’re only staying long enough for me to stretch and get some ideas
down for my next chapter before I forget them.” Oma looks at me and grins as though we share a secret.

Back home Milo and I share a tiny bedroom, even though, in my opinion, we’re too old to. We each have a single bed with one nightstand jammed between them. To get over the books that are stacked on the floor at the foot of each of our beds, we have to walk to the end and long jump. Mom’s childhood room has books too. Classics mostly, lining shelves along the wall. The shelves, like the woodwork throughout the house, are painted thick with white glossy paint.

I instantly fall in love with Mom’s spacious old room, with its pale pink and cranberry flowered wallpaper and long windows dressed in filmy curtains that obviously were once wedding-white. There’s a small nightstand with gouges in the wood next to the full-size bed and a vanity clotted with dried nail polish. And, best of all, there’s an old rolltop writing desk, the veneer on the writing area bubbled and cracked in places.

Oma stands in the center of the room, her hands on her hips as she swirls in a slow circle. “Your mother had this room filled with posters of rock stars by the time she was twelve. She pulled them all down when she left,” she says, moving to the wall and running her fingers over the tiny patches where triangles of glossy paper sit trapped under yellowed strips of tape.

Oma shakes her head. “I can’t believe your grandpa’s third wife didn’t clear out this room.” Her peachy lips form a circle then. “Oh, I wonder …” she says, as she heads to the closet.

“Oh, my gosh, they’re still here!” Oma reaches past the cardboard boxes closed with duct tape and runs her hands
over the stack of notebooks beside them, their edges frayed and waved like potato chips. There are at least five dozen notebooks in the stack, bound with a thick rope made of braided yarn.