The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma (11 page)

“Anyway, he stopped going to church after the war, too. He never went again.”

“I'm sure it changed him in a lot of ways.”

“I think so. They didn't know about post-traumatic stress disorder back then.” Grandma looks down at her plate. She picks up her cutlery and cuts a piece of dry steak and slides an onion ring with her knife onto the fork. “And when he died, I got a leather baby boot without the laces . . . oh, I'm sorry to go on like this, you probably want to eat.”

“No, this is interesting.”

“Well, it was actually my own baby boot. I never knew it at the time, but he'd taken it with him to France. He'd used it as a holder for his coins.”

She puts the forkful of food into her mouth and starts chewing. “I can't imagine how good it would have been for his money. It was such a little boot . . . it really was tiny.”

AFTER OUR SANDWICHES
and potato salad, Grandma wonders if I want dessert. I tell her I'm fine. I'm full. I'm content just to finish off the wine. She says the same to our server, who drops off our cheque with two plastic-wrapped clear mints. Again Grandma asks me to fill in the Visa slip with an appropriate tip, and then she signs it.

On our walk back to the car, Grandma takes my arm.

“It's on nights like this my nose starts up like a tap. Whenever there's a bit of a chill in the air.”

I sniff. “Actually, yeah, me too,” I say.

It's my right forearm she holds, looping her hand around my elbow. She typically likes to walk on her own strength, so I'm not sure if it's because she's tired, or is feeling the wine, or just because.

“Don't you find it funny when people always say, ‘Don't go to sleep angry'?” Grandma says suddenly.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “You hear that a lot. It's become a bit of a relationship cliché, hasn't it?”

We walk slowly and carefully, avoiding the thin puddles.

“It is, it's a cliché, just something that people say because it sounds right. I can tell you now, in any long, meaningful relationship you're going to go to bed some nights angry and frustrated and upset.”

“You're probably right, seems more realistic.”

“Of course. No one can upset you or irritate you more than the one you're married to. These things aren't easy. It's more important not to take the other person for granted the rest of the time, when you're not angry.”

We stop to catch our breath and both use a Kleenex on our runny noses.

“If you ever want to really know how you feel about someone . . .” she says.

“Yeah . . .”

“Look at them when they're asleep,” she says, and starts walking again. I follow.

“Really?”

“Yup. If you're ever married some day and you're mad at your wife, wait for a while, until she's definitely fallen asleep. Give it a bit of time. Then roll over and just have a look at her. Then you'll know how you feel. That's the important part, the looking.”

“Just look?”

“Everyone always talks about communicating and talking through an argument, which I suppose is important. But I would say, try to be quiet.” Grandma looks up with grinning eyes. “But they have to be asleep for it to work.”

IT'S A SHORT
drive back to my place. I leave the radio off. I don't play any tapes. All we hear is the engine and tires on the road. Grandma gazes out her window the whole way, at the lake and the trees. I pull into my driveway. Grandma gets out first and walks around the front of the car. The rain has now completely stopped, not even a drizzle, but the air still feels heavy and damp, like a giant bedsheet taken out of the dryer too soon.

“I was hoping the stars would be brighter, now that the rain has stopped,” says Grandma. “But you can't really see them.”

“I guess it's still cloudy up there.”

“It's always nice to be able to see them. It's a perk of being out this late.”

“True.”

“Maybe if we look up long enough they'll start to come out. Maybe our eyes just need to adjust.”

I swing my door closed and walk around my side to the front of the car. It's actually not
that
late. It feels later than it is. Especially on my street. It's a street full of families and young couples. The other homes are notable only for their darkness.

“It's so nice here. And quiet,” says Grandma.

“Yes, it is.”

“And the smell,” she says. “It smells amazing tonight after that rain.”

“It does, doesn't it?
Petrichor
, that's the word.”

Grandma doesn't respond. We take a moment to smell. I smell the air. Grandma does the same. How many more breaths has she inhaled and exhaled than I have? Obviously thousands, hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions? We're inhaling and exhaling deep breaths as if small breaths are corrupting for the lungs.

“It reminds me of a lake,” I say. “Or any large body of water.”

“Yes, and I was thinking of a bonfire for some reason.” She inhales again. “Yes, definitely a bonfire. Maybe someone isn't asleep. Maybe someone has a fire going. I like that idea.”

I waft the air à la scientist-over-beaker. “Agreed,” I say. “I'm getting fire now, too.”

I haven't just stood outside my place at night like this for a long time. Maybe never. It's mighty pleasant. I look back and see Grandma's left her door ajar. It hangs open like the mouth of someone who's surprised. When I get over to close it for her, I decide it looks less surprised and more like it's holding a wide yawn.

12:44 a.m.

“GRANDMA, IS EVERYTHING
all right?”

“Yes, dear, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? I thought you'd gone to bed.”

“Yes, I had,” she says. “I thought you had, too.”

We both had. We'd gone inside, each drinking a coffee mug of water, and said we were tired. I gave her a pat on the back and we went to our rooms.

“Yeah, I had. But I'm not sure if all that food is sitting right with me. I have some gurglies or something.”

Grandma brushes a thin tuft of bang off her forehead. I'm not used to seeing her like this: in her nightgown, barefoot, with her hair unbrushed. The nails on her toes are gnarled and thick. I can't decide if she looks older or younger.

“What's the problem?” she asks.

I think maybe she looks older. “Oh, nothing, I have heartburn or something. I think I have some
TUMS
in the bathroom.”

“Oh, that's a shame. Is it very bad?”

“My tummy? It's not great, but not lethal. How's yours?” I'm anticipating a similar complaint from Grandma. We ate identical meals and drank identical drinks.

“Oh, it's fine. I just loved that potato sala'blacken,” she says.

“Then why are you up?”

“I was just going to check the hockey score. We forgot to do that when we got home.”

“Oh, you mean on the TV?”

“Yes, exactly.”

I cross my arms over my stomach. “Well, do you know how to turn it on or do you want me to do that?”

“No, no, you go get your medicine and get better. I can figure it out.” She's already three steps down the hall and talking over her left shoulder. “Feel better, dear.”

After my tummy pills and another mug of water, I burp three times back to back to back and feel remarkably better. I walk by the living room a new man. My small TV is an old one, and has no remote. Grandma is bent over in front, working the buttons with one hand. She's found the sports channel and is lowering the volume now. Her back is arched.

“So how'd the Senators do, Grandma?” I call.

She turns her head carefully, still locked in her quasi-hunch. She's not pushing the buttons anymore but is holding the front of the TV. She's using it as a brace. Her smile blooms across her face.

“I had a feeling we'd do it,” she says, pumping a fist over her head. “The boys won!”

WEDNESDAY

7:56 a.m.

MY FIRST CONSCIOUS
thought this morning is a delightful one: I can't hear rain. Almost as nice, no beeping alarm. I've beat it to the punch. I'm awake first. My room is quiet. I'm not exhausted. I'm in the vicinity of well-rested. Not much tossing and turning. No Lynchian nightmares. No headache, and my stomach feels right again. The knots from last night have been unlaced.

I wonder how Grandma's doing?

We've made it through two days, and presumably two nights, without any mishaps or injury or irritation. That's something. It's all been startlingly pleasant.

My calm reverie is disrupted when I hear something metallic hit something metallic. A piece of cutlery dropped into an empty sink? Grandma must be awake. She's up already? I roll out of bed, grab my housecoat, and step into my slippers.

“Grandma,” I say, shuffling into the kitchen, tying my robe at the waist, “good morn. You beat me up. Well, I mean, you didn't physically harm me, but . . . you're up!”

I'm getting used to seeing her first thing. It's less awkward. For both of us. This morning her grin, white hair, rounded shoulders, and twinkling eyes feel almost as habitual as the smell of coffee.

“Yes, dear, I woke up early to take my pill and just decided to stay up. I've been reading. It's so nice and quiet.”

I take a step closer. She's sitting at the puny table. There's something in her voice that sounds coarser. It looks like she's coloured her left nostril with a red crayon. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, sure, I'm fine. I had another great sleep. You know me.”

“'Cause you sound a little hoarse, or something. Or stuffed up.”

“Oh, yes, well, not to worry. I'm fine.” She looks down at her lap and sniffs. “I've caught something. But it's just a small cold in my nose, nothing serious.”

I've never considered a flu or cold “small” before. Anytime I'm sick, or even mildly ill, I revert to my four-year-old self. I'm unamused and sulk around feeling sorry for myself, questioning my life choices, yearning for simultaneous peace, quiet,
and
constant twenty-four-hour care.

Grandma's voice sounds worse than a “small cold.” I don't press her. I don't want her thinking I'm worried about it. “Okay, well, how do you feel? Do you want to go back to bed or anything? I could give you some extra blankets.”

Offering blankets: isn't that what one does?

“No, no, of course not. I'm up. I'm fine.” Her body calls her a liar as she sneezes into the crook of her arm. She'd been trying to stifle the urge. Then she lifts her head up for a second, shuts her eyes, and sneezes again. The double sneeze accentuates the glaze in her eyes. Her face is drawn. It looks longer and thinner than it did yesterday. Her hair is combed, but not quite as meticulously as yesterday or the day before. It's flatter.

“Well, let me at least get you something warm to drink. Tea or coffee?”

“Whatever's easier, dear.”

“Both are extremely easy.”

“Some tea would be lovely. Thank you,” she says, clearing her throat.

I set the kettle to boil and myself to brood. I'm mentally whistling along with the kettle, ready to be taken off my own burning element of worry and disappointment. Now she's sick!? Really? I'll clearly have to put her to bed. She'll spend all today and tomorrow sleeping. Then it'll be time to take her home.

I can easily predict the culmination to our glorious holiday. I'll start to feel my throat tighten up. I'll sneeze a few times as I drive her home. On my way back to Kingston it'll settle in on me earnestly. I'm going to catch this cold. I'm not
actually
worried about that, though. Honestly. I don't care if I get it. Seriously. I can cope with a stupid cold. I'm younger. My main concern is for Grandma and her well-being.

No. I
am
worried about getting it. I don't want the cold. Completely Fucking Pathetic.
CFP
, that should be my nickname from now on. I should sign emails
Yours,
cfp
.

“Here you go, Grandma,” I say, setting her tea down in front of her with my arm fully extended. I'm maintaining a germ-free buffer zone between us. “Now what about something to eat?”

“You know, dear, I'm really not all that hungry this morning. I'm not sure I could eat anything. Just the tea, I think. But you should have something.”

“No, no, I don't have to eat anything either. I'm okay with just a cup of coffee.” Not true at all.

“That's ridiculous. It won't bother me to watch you eat. My stomach isn't upset.”

I don't put up much of a fight. In fact, I relent aggressively, not just toasting an English muffin but filling the kitchen with the smells of bacon, eggs, beans, fried potatoes, tomatoes, and toast.

I gorge and convince Grandma to take some toast and potato. And then some egg, too. And a piece of bacon. “It just smelled so good,” she says. “And I guess I still have my appetite.”

After using her piece of toast as an edible J Cloth to wipe her plate clean, Grandma finally asks me what she's been wanting to ask all morning (and potentially all night). “Do you have Kleenex, dear?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Grandma. Yes, of course, my God, I should have thought of that,” I say, jumping up out of my chair.

“That's fine. I usually have some on me.”

I run back to my room. I look everywhere. I throw my pillows onto the floor and knock a stack of books off my desk. I ransack the bathroom. I can't find Kleenex anywhere. Plan B (which really should have been more like plan Q): I wrap a generous bundle of toilet paper around my hand and rip it from its roll. I sheepishly lay it on the table in front of Grandma.

“Very sorry, Grandma. I actually don't have any real Kleenex. But I have lots of toilet paper, so feel free to go to town.” Go to town? On the toilet paper? I want to grab the words out of the air as I'm saying them, wrap them in the toilet paper, and flush them away.

“Oh, this will do fine.” She picks it up immediately and does what she's been wanting to do all morning — give her nose a hearty blow.

I decide, under the shameless protection of the blowing-­her-nose din, that now's the time to mention my morning plans. “I hope you don't mind, but we have to wait for these water guys to get here.” I say it quickly to finish at the same time as her blowing.

“Who are the water guys?” wonders Grandma as she takes the remainder of the toilet paper and slides it up under her shirt sleeve. I can still see it, hanging from her forearm like a white tail.

“I mean the guys who are going to fix the hot water tank.”

“Oh, okay. Yes, that's fine. The hot water tank is broken?”

For the first time I realize Grandma hasn't mentioned the lack of hot water. She's been here for two nights. She hasn't said a word about it. How could that be? Is this because she hasn't required any hot water? Or because she didn't want to say anything because she didn't want me to feel bad?

“Yeah, sorry, I thought I told you, Grandma.” Maybe I did tell her? It's possible she just forgot. “They said they'd be here sometime this morning. They didn't have an exact time.”

“Fine, dear. That's just fine.”

“Are you sure you don't want to go back to bed? We have to stick around anyway.”

“No, I'm fine.”

“Well, then, what do you feel like doing? We can't really go anywhere until they get here.” We've become like two children sitting in a basement on a Saturday afternoon with nowhere to go. And nothing to do.

“Whatever you think. But first, could you do me a favour?”

“Sure, anything.”

I'm assuming she's going to ask me to pop out and obtain some cold medication. Maybe some chicken soup and Kleenex. “Would you mind just opening the cupboard there, under the sink?”

“Oh, okay. Sure.” I stand and do as requested. I watch Grandma ball up her used squares of toilet paper. She steadies her hand and lets the paper fly like a mini mucus basketball. Her form is pristine. It lands in the rubbish bin square in the middle.
Swish.
She smiles.

I'm wide-eyed in approval and surprised at her shot.
“Hey, how would you like to see my desk?” This is a release of uncensored verbal cogitation. I'm impressed by her trash-
basket shot, but instead of saying so have brought up my desk. I don't know why.

Maybe it's because subconsciously I'm aware they have something in common, Grandma and my desk. Both are sturdy and have lived in several different places, in different homes. And both are very old. I would say both are reliable. I've been getting to know each one better, the older they get.

Without asking me to repeat the question or taking a moment to consider this new topic, she answers, “Yes, I'd love to see it. I know how much you like your desk.”

Without another word, I lead her to my room. There isn't much to see. I have a reading chair, a record player, some bookcases. I have a bed without a frame. It sits on the floor. I hastily make my bed, which I'd neglected to do, as Grandma peers around.

“This is a cozy room. It's so nice that you have some plants.” She's talking about my aloe vera plant sitting on the window ledge. It's an insignificant plant, my only one, and could probably fit in a medium-sized coffee cup. But by definition it is a plant. It is green. And both Grandma and I appreciate greenery.

“Yeah, I like having something alive in here to keep me company. But the best part, Grandma, take at look at this.” I take her by the arm over to my desk. I pull out the chair and take the hoodie off the back.

“Oh, my. Wow. Look at this,” she says, seating herself.

My desk is the best desk in the world. It's solid oak. It's sturdy. And it's ancient. There are scratches on it, not all over it, and the drawers are a bit sticky. It really is perfect. Grandma delicately runs her hand over the top. Like her, it has a past that reveals itself every time I find another scratch or set of initials scraped onto its surface.

“I just love it,” she says. “It's exactly what I pictured.”

I consider it priceless, but I actually got my desk for free. When I first moved to Kingston, I was in need of a desk. Any desk. I'd been writing on the tiny space atop a broken sewing machine from the 1970s. There was no room for any papers, so I had to scatter any notes over the floor and my neighbouring bed. I would have settled for any salvageable horizontal working surface.

I'd been browsing online, but nothing in my price range was significantly better than the blasted sewing machine. One morning I happened to take a stroll down a neighbouring street. It was early. I came across my desk sitting at the end of a driveway. It wasn't my desk yet but was about to be. It had a handwritten note Scotch-taped to the front: “
FREE.
” The drawers were all out and sitting on top as if proving it had nothing to hide.

“I guess it was meant to be. That's so lucky,” she says, swivelling around to face me again.

“Do you think you're lucky?” I ask.

“Absolutely. I am. I've always been lucky.”

“Really? You mean, when you look back at things that have happened to you?”

“I mean now. I think feeling lucky is really only important, really only helpful, in the present. It seems tempting to wait for perspective, perspective gained by time. But it becomes irrelevant in the past. Luck doesn't really mean the same thing if it's only understood through memory, is what I'm trying to say.”

She stands again and pushes the chair back under the desk. She walks over to my bookcase. “You sure like books, don't you.”

“I like to read . . .”

She pulls the odd one out, reading the spine before sliding it back in. “I should borrow a couple from you. You know, new ones. It's hard for me to know what new books to pick.”

“Did your parents read much when you were young?”

“I don't think so, not much. The papers maybe, but not books so much.”

She walks over to my hi-fi sitting on its stand by the wall. “Is that an old record player?” she asks.

“Yeah, it is.”

“We used to have a gramophone that was built into a large armoire. We really only had Scottish music, though.”

“I have some records in my closet.”

“Really? I'd love to see some. Would you mind?”

“No, not at all.”

I scurry into my closet and retrieve two of my milk crates of albums. I lug one and drag the other over to Grandma. I tell her to sit in the comfy chair beside the bookcase. She does and folds her hands together on her lap. I sit down on the floor. “I think there'll be a few in here you'll remember.”

I start flipping through the collection. When I come across those I think she'll remember, I pass them to her. Some sleeves are quite damaged and ripped, and I have to be careful to ensure a delicate hand-off: quarterback to running back without fumble.

“You probably used to listen to this,” I say.

She receives each and examines it closely. After we've isolated five or six, I suggest maybe we put one on. “What do you think, Grandma? Do you want to listen to some of these while we wait?”

“I'd love that. Let's start with this one,” she says. She hands me the Ink Spots.

“Grandma,” I say, nodding, “great choice.”

I put it on. The speakers spit and crackle and then go quiet before the music starts. We listen to the first two tracks entirely without speaking. Neither of us makes any noise, no coughing or sniffing. We're like two audio sponges, soaking up the resonance equally. I'm lying on the floor, my hands under my head. Grandma puts her feet up on the stool and leans back.

She's listening with strict attention. She even closes her eyes. I furtively watch as her face goes from resolute pleasure to careful regard. She's thinking about something and wants to talk. She shifts forward.