The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma (4 page)

Lucky? Fun? I haven't considered either of these adjectives in weeks, months. Does Grandma actually believe this, or does she just understand the socially acceptable pre-trip idiom to share with your middle-aged neighbour when your grandson is loading the car within earshot?

I'm still staring, gape-mouthed, into the trunk. I finally look up. “Oh, sorry, Grandma.” She's waiting at her locked door. Grandma's even shorter than I remember. But sturdy, not frail. She's dressed sharply, with a cardinal-red collared blouse and a soft woollen shawl around her shoulders. My cut-off jeans feel more flippant than they did an hour ago.

I finally manoeuvre room for both of Grandma's bags in front of the duvet and behind the cooler. I slam down the rusty trunk and walk around to her side of the car. “There you go,” I say, opening her door. “Don't worry, it's comfy. Well, comfier than it looks.”

She pats my arm. “It looks cozy.”

The door, like the car, is tired. It groans and sags on its greasy hinges. Grandma smiles, lowering herself gradually, carefully. She steadies herself on my left arm all the way onto the low-riding seat.

That's when I notice my front licence plate is hanging on by a single screw. The left screw is long ago lost. But, as Dad pointed out earlier, I keep it in place with grey duct tape. The most recent strips of tape must have lost their hold. I usually have to re-tape every two weeks or so. I ask Grandma to hand me the roll that I keep on the handbrake.

As I straighten and fasten the dented licence plate, my delicately positive mood disintegrates. With Grandma watching, this act makes me feel much more foolish and unsophisticated than it usually does. And realizing this, that I usually don't feel any remorse or embarrassment over continuously taping my front plate, fills me with a deep self-directed sourness.

But our endeavour is official now. It's no longer speculative. It's real. It's happening. Grandma's sitting in my car. I've swung her door shut. Even while I drove to her house, part of me still didn't believe our trip would actually happen. Maybe I'd just pick her up and she'd tell me she'd decided it'd be best not to go away for so long, and we'd go out for a nice lunch and that would be that. Then I could go home to my apartment, to my slippers. The most difficult thing for me might be having constant company for five days, the responsibility to make conversation with another person, to make meals for another person, an older person. I suppose I can cope. I'm hoping she can.

The neighbour is well down the street when Grandma confirms with a smile and nod that both her feet are inside, and I swing her door closed.

For a moment I stand back and look at my old car with my old Grandma encased inside. “So cozy,” she says again from within.

1:39 p.m.

SO FAR, SO
good. Our trip is off to a fine start. There have been no significant mishaps. My mood is sweetening.

Granted, we've yet to make it out of Ottawa. In fact, we're just out of Grandma's neighbourhood. Like Mom predicted, we've stopped for something to eat. I pulled out of her driveway, made a total of three turns, drove west to the outskirts of Ottawa, and she made the foreseeable suggestion. It's conceivable she heard my stomach growl. “I bet you're hungry. Do you want to stop for some lunch?”

“I could probably eat. But are you hungry?” I never know with old people. Their appetites seem constantly uncertain.

“Up to you, dear.”

“I'm easy, I can always eat. This is your trip. What do you think?”

“I'm happy to stop — if that's what you want.”

“Well, are you hungry, Grandma?”

“Oh, sure. I could be. And if you're hungry, then we should stop.”

“How about this place?” I point at a pan-Asian restaurant to our right. I know Grandma loves Vietnamese food. She nods and grins. She's holding her purse on her lap with both hands.

There's no parking in front so Grandma directs me to the back through a narrow alley. She's been here before. There's only one other car in the spacious rear lot. With plenty of suitable spots to select from, I coast bafflingly over to the far south side and park beside a green dumpster that smells foul. Grandma has about two feet of space to exit the car.

“You're a good parker,” she comments sincerely after her escape. “It's so straight, and right between the lines.”

We stand outside the restaurant, trying to decide if it's too cold for the patio. Grandma comments on the overcast sky. She thinks we could use the rain. She thinks farmers need it for their crops. I tell her it's not supposed to rain. I think the clouds will pass. Regardless, the breeze has teeth, and I'm shivering in my cotton T-shirt. I wish I had a woollen shawl, too. She scans my protruding goosebumps.

“Okay,” she says, “let's go inside.”

Once inside, Grandma insists I choose our table. Isn't she worried I'll pick the one beside the garbage can? I am.

I think about putting the question back to her. I'm certain she'll just deflect it back on me. So I flick my head toward a booth on our right. “How 'bout that one?”

“Good choice,” she says, tossing her purse in first. “I've sat here with your mom before.”

The bench is low and the table rises to just under Grandma's chin. She rests her arms on the surface. Kleenex pokes out from one of her red sleeves. Grandma points out some of the other booths she's sat in; more than half. We wait for service.

Her hands have held on to an elegant toughness. Apart from the odd liver spot or new freckle, they don't look all that different than when I was a kid. They're strong, womanly hands. They aren't delicate. These are hands acquainted with work. Her nails are strong, durable. She has them all trimmed the same length, no chips or broken edges. She wears a thin bracelet on her left wrist and two rings on the same finger — her engagement and wedding rings, I assume. I don't recall ever seeing her without these rings. It appears they have become part of her finger, embedded into the skin like the bark of an old tree.

She's helping me navigate my one-page laminated menu, pointing out options. “Their hot and sour soup is delicious,” she's saying. “It's just so different.”

“I think I'll get a bowl of that.”

“What else?” she says.

We each decide on some soup and to split a couple of meat dishes.

“Now, what else?”

“Oh, mmm,” I mumble. “Hmmm.”

“Maybe we should get some spring rolls.”

“Right,” I say. “I always enjoy a good roll, be it egg or spring.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, just that I like spring rolls, Grandma.”

“Good. And what about some fried wontons? I love those little wontons.” We've just stacked our menus and, I thought, finished compiling our order. “I can never resist those crisp little wontons.”

“Who can?” I say. I'm not sure I've ever tasted a wonton before. They sound vaguely familiar.

As we wait for our food, two more duos arrive for lunch. They seem much less interested in the whole dining-out experience and more concerned with basic feeding. Neither table needs menus. Both order instantly. Two men in pastel-coloured golf shirts with black phones fastened to their black belts sit in the booth directly in front of us. They sit silently, waiting for their noodles, and unholster their phones.

I think one of the reasons Grandma fancies this place is not only the authentic fare but also the service. A short, slim Vietnamese lady in plastic sandals, who I presume is the owner, buzzes around all three tables. She moves purposefully, ceaselessly. The second I extract an inch of water, the plastic pitcher attached to her arm is spilling more icy liquid into my glass. She smiles and nods as she does it, as if her wide grin functions symbiotically with the flow of water. Her eyes watch me, not the glass. It's a strange dynamic, and my instinct is to simply mimic her behaviour. I grin and nod back. We grin and nod together, thanking each other. I think I've said thank you forty or so times already.

“Thank you for the water,” I'm saying again. “It's very good water. Thank you.”

For some reason, as I yammer on, I find the palms of my hands coming together and touching my chest like I'm praying. Thankfully, I am able to resist muttering my last florid expression of gratitude without adding a discernible Vietnamese accent.

Grandma's knowledge of Vietnamese food is reliable, especially considering she came to it so late in life. She tells me she didn't start eating it until she was in her eighties. She always loved North American–style Chinese food but now prefers both Vietnamese and Cambodian.

Our dishes arrive. As declared, the soup is pleasantly hot and sour. The chalky broth is thick, like it's holding a very fine cloud of sand. The crispy wontons are a deep-fried treat. We secured a bundle of eight with our order, and I've already devoured my four. In a resourceful display utterly devoid of dignity and etiquette, I used them as edible spoons to scoop up slippery vermicelli noodles.

This is what happens when I arrive at this level of hunger, and I don't realize I'm there until I see and smell the food. I proceed to eat like the meal is a dietary shopping spree of sorts, like I have a brief, finite amount of time to absorb as much of the plate as possible before it's taken away. It's glutinously gratifying for me but must be visually offensive for any companion or observer.

I've consumed my half of the pork dish, too, a third of the chicken dish, and my spring roll. The chicken dish contained almond halves, and I'm pretty sure I had most of them (by
pure
coincidence).

Grandma is enjoying the food but is advancing at a moderate pace. If I'm sprinting, she's crab-walking. Grandma's not yet halfway through her soup. That's it. She hasn't made a move for anything else. “It's so good, so different,” she's saying, savouring each spoonful. “Better even than last time, I think. I love it here.”

“Yes, it's very good, Grandma.”

I set down my cutlery. I take a breath. Our table is much quieter when I stop my rapid feeding. It permits the adult-contempo' radio station a more prominent role. This is only our first meal. We'll have many more on this trip. At least three a day. For a minute I just listen to the Goo Goo Dolls and watch Grandma eventually progress to her chicken. It's possible this will be our tastiest meal of the trip. She carefully slices an already bite-sized piece of white meat into three smaller pieces. She sets her knife down carefully, impales a single microscopic morsel, and brings it slowly up to her mouth. Her hand shakes marginally. She chews and swallows.

I make a mental note to start seriously adjusting my consumption speed.

I wipe my napkin across my hot and sour lips and set it down. It absorbs some of the remaining sauce and sticks to the mostly empty plate. I take another sip of water, attempting to be sly. I don't want a refill. The owner is behind the counter; her eyes rise up. How does she know? This was a negligible sip. I don't want any more. I don't need a full glass. The sip is small enough to fit on the face of a coin without spillage. She's reaching for something — fuck — her pitcher.

“It really is very good,” says Grandma.

The owner approaches, but instead of filling me up, she sits down at the adjacent table. “How you like?” she asks.

Grandma and I both answer that the food is very good. We thank her. I go a step further and say “delicious.” Grandma echoes my sentiment. The owner is glad but stays where she is. Her shoulders slouch like she's uninterested in finishing her shift. I'm not sure what else to do, so I ask, “How are you doing?”

“I have bills.”

Not the answer I was expecting. “Shucks,” I offer.

“Very expensive here.”

Grandma is blowing on a spoonful of soup.

“Oh, that's too bad. It's tough, isn't it,” I say, my chin down on my chest, restraining a burgeoning burp.

“And my feet, my feet hurt.” She holds one leg up off the floor. “Both my feet.”

“It's not easy.” I'm starting to wish she'd just refill my water.

“Lots of pain.”

“Geez.” I'm still peckish and am undressing one of Grandma's spring rolls with my eyes. It's still untouched. What do they put in there? Is it meat?

“The rent here too high.”

“Well . . .” Sprouts for sure. Are the sprouts washed first?

“You know how much I pay?”

I clear my throat. “Hard to say, it's such a nice spot here . . . it's so roomy . . .”

“I pay too much,” she says.

As if summoned to expand her case, a chef in customary whites surfaces from what appears to be the very depths of the kitchen. One of the other tables still doesn't have any food. They're looking concerned as they watch him abandon his post.

The chef is sweating and could either have just been working hard in a hot kitchen or have put in a few hours on a steeply inclined treadmill while wearing a garbage bag tracksuit. His face is glistening. He doesn't say anything but puts his hand on Grandma's back. There's a beige Band-Aid wrapped around his index finger. She hadn't seen him approach. It startles her. She sits up bolt-straight, bringing one hand to her chest. “Oh, hello,” she says, resting her spoon on the lip of the bowl.

“You know,” he says directly to Grandma, ignoring the rest of us, “you know who you remind me of?” His accent is much less pronounced than the server's; like the Band-Aid, it's hardly noticeable.

Grandma looks at me, then to the server, and finally up to the chef. She raises one eyebrow, the way she always does when pondering. “Who?”

“You. You remind me of my grandmother back in Vietnam.”

“Oh, really,
me
?” says Grandma.

“Oh, yes, it's amazing.” I assume his grandma back in Vietnam is likely Vietnamese. Not Scottish.