“Mom’s just trying to help,” I say.
“Is she now?” Granny huffs.
“Granny, say sorry,” I whisper. “Please? For me?”
“Sorry,” Granny says, like she so doesn’t mean it.
After, I tell Mom to remember the bargain: she gets to do what she wants in the kitchen, but the den and front yard are out of bounds.
I Skype Aunt Teddi in a panic. “They’re going to pull the plug.”
“Relax,” she says. “Your parents want this to work.”
“Do they?” My voice is way high.
“Yes. For as long as it can.”
“Which means tomorrow.”
“Your dad said a month. He keeps his word.”
“Hi, Zoe,” Uncle Wilf waves in the background. I try to smile, waving back.
“Wilf and I are coming up this weekend,” Aunt Teddi says. “Your folks’ll have a break. Breaks make a difference.”
They do. Other things do, too. Once we get Internet, Dad has a revelation. Not only is it nicer to work at a window than facing a basement wall, but, “It’s easier to concentrate without that GD hair dryer.” And Mom remembers my biggest Granny tip: “Don’t argue. Just smile and distract.”
Granny chills out. She mostly sits on the rocker or naps on the comfy couch. The odd time she wanders into Dad’s office, it’s like she’s forgotten he ever left home. The one thing that drives us nuts is her repeating herself. When it’s too much we give her the tablet with the slideshow. Her face changes with the photos, as she sits happily, finding herself in the past.
* * *
I know we’re good the night Mom and Dad ask if it’d be okay if they took a night’s break after Granny’s in bed.
“Duh,” I laugh. “I’m two minutes away.”
Naturally, Mom calls a million times the first hour. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” I tease, “the house is on fire.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Yes, a ladder to get Granny off the chimney.”
“Not funny. If you need anything—”
“What I really need is peace and quiet.”
“Is Granny disturbing you?”
“No. It’s just the phone keeps ringing.”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry. Love you, honey.”
It’s sweet how they think I need them. Which, okay, maybe I do. But with the three of us, plus Aunt Teddi and Uncle Wilf, we have things under control.
* * *
Wednesday, a few months after the move, Granny and I are on the front lawn adjusting Fred’s tie. Granny looks up at the sky. “They say every star is an angel waiting to be born.”
“Who’s they?”
“You know,” Granny says like I’m an idiot. “The folks that write the baby cards.”
“Imagine if it was true: all those angels looking down at the Bird House.”
“Why, where else would they look? The Bird House is the finest house ever. It’s where I live. It’s where I’m going to die, too.”
“That’s right, Granny. But not for a long time.”
“A long, long time.”
CODA
Life is a storybook. Our stories depend on what happens and what doesn’t; what we know and what we don’t; what we forget and why. That’s what makes telling the truth tricky. Because the past never stays still: it keeps changing into the future.
I like to end the story of Granny and me with us in the front yard looking up at the stars. That’s a happy ending, a real one, and a true one. But it’s not the only one. Other times my mind keeps going, and the story isn’t as easy. On times like those, I remember an ending more like this:
* * *
Granny was stable for another six months. She dressed herself except for my help with the armholes, socks and laces, and she mostly made it to the toilet on time. Thank God for sweatpants.
There were difficult times, sure, but then she’d say, “You’re so good to me,” and I’d say, “You’re so good to be good to,” and I felt so tender, I wouldn’t have traded the hard parts for the world.
Mom and Dad were amazing. Aunt Teddi too. She Skyped most days and came up with Uncle Wilf every other weekend to give us a break.
“Have you ever thought about working with seniors when you grow up?” Aunt Teddi asked. “You have a gift.” That made me want to learn from Granny even more, and to study harder at school, which, by the way, was suddenly way more fun.
For one thing, Madi never came back. After she finished community service — picking up trash on Main Street — she went to a boarding academy. According to Aunt Jess, our high school wasn’t good enough, ha ha. Also, Ricky and I became friends. That’s all, but it was fine. I didn’t have time for a boyfriend then.
Granny started to talk more about her parents and grandparents. Not in the past, but in the present and future. “If you don’t see me tomorrow, it’s because Grandpa Avis has taken me to the farm.” She said that a lot. Also, “Mother’s coming for dinner. I have to pick rhubarb.”
She also got confused about Mom, who did her hair and nails. Sometimes she’d call her Mona. Aunt Teddi said that Granny had gone to a Mona’s Hair and Beauty Salon in Elmira. I remember being afraid there might be a time when she’d mix me up.
One day I came home from school and she was so angry.
“Why don’t you ever visit?”
It was like I’d been kicked in the stomach. “I do, Granny. I’m here every day.”
“So you say.”
I brought in a bird’s nest from the veranda. She got so excited she forgot she’d been mad. “You’re so good to me,” she said.
“You’re so good to be good to.”
Everything was more or less fine until she banged her knee on the piano. The doctor said nothing was pulled or broken but she developed a limp. It didn’t affect her moving around; like before, she went from one piece of furniture to the next, using them as supports. But the stairs were a problem.
She seemed to know it, too. Without being told, she started to go up and down on her bum, one step at a time. But because her skin was so thin, it rubbed her tailbone raw. We put on salve and bandages, but we worried about infection. Dad asked if we should put up a children’s barrier. “No,” I said. “She’d try to climb over and hurt herself for sure.”
For the first time, I wondered if Greenview really would be best. We had a family meeting. We agreed that Granny would never be happy except for here, so she should stay: if worse came to worst, she’d have died as she wanted. Only then we asked if we’d forgive ourselves. And then we asked why we should think about ourselves at all.
Sometimes there’s no good answer. Those are the hardest times of all.
I tried an experiment. Granny already napped on the comfy couch, so I made it up like a bed and put her photos on the coffee table. Somehow a switch turned on. Like Grampa, she stopped using the stairs. The den became her bedroom.
Without the stairs, Granny didn’t get much exercise. The less she moved, the less she could. Aunt Teddi rented a hospital bed with adjustable positions and arranged for a helper to come morning and night.
There was another family meeting, this time with the doctor. The whole time I had to think about life without Granny. Because that’s where this was headed. When Granny watched the slideshow, her expression didn’t change. She still smiled at me, but she didn’t really talk much anymore.
We decided to place a Do Not Resuscitate order if Granny’s heart stopped. I felt sick to my stomach, but the doctor explained that resuscitation hardly ever works with seniors. Ribs are cracked. Organs are pierced. People die horrible deaths. We didn’t want that for Granny.
I kept studying at Granny’s bedside. When I needed a break, I’d rub moisturizer into her skin so it wouldn’t tear, and roll her onto different sides so she wouldn’t get bedsores. All of us did. I don’t think she noticed.
I must have been exhausted, but that’s not how I remember it. What I remember is feeling
so lucky I had someone like Granny to care for.
The hardest part was getting her to eat. She was thin as sticks. Earlier we’d had a game where she’d take a bite when I would. Then, when she wouldn’t lift her fork or spoon, I’d feed her with a different game: the spoon was me coming to the Bird House and her mouth was the front door opening to let me in.
Now though, the front door only opened for a few spoons of apple sauce and soup a day. She’d turn her head away. I was so upset. I remember the day I said: “Granny, if you don’t eat, you’ll die.”
Granny smiled like she knew what I was saying, and maybe she did, but she didn’t answer. She’d stopped speaking. The next time I put the spoon to her lips, she clenched her teeth and turned her head away.
The doctor said there was nothing anyone could do to force her to eat, unless we wanted to put her in the hospital and stick her full of tubes. Nobody wanted to be that cruel, especially when he said, “Even then, it won’t be long.”
The school gave me permission to be away. I collected my reading and homework assignments for the next week, but the teachers said not to worry, they understood.
I sat by Granny’s bed, trying to study, but it was hard not knowing how much longer before I’d never be doing it again.
Aunt Teddi and Uncle Wilf came up. They and my parents sat with Granny in rotation: I stayed non-stop on a recliner. Dad told me I should go upstairs to sleep.
“I can’t. I have to be here.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Mom said. “Your granny doesn’t know we’re here.”
“You don’t know that.”
Granny’s lips got very dry. We kept them moist with foam Q-tips dipped in sugared water and cooled her forehead with a damp facecloth. Mostly, though, we held her hand and told her the stories she’d told us about her growing up and stories about the wonderful things she’d done for us and how we loved her.
Sometimes it was hard to tell if Granny was still breathing. She’d stop for what seemed like forever and then she’d start again. The sound was awful.
It happened Saturday morning. Granny and I were alone. My hand was under hers; her eyes were closed.
“Granny,” I said, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, I want you to know that there will never be anyone like you again, and that I will always, always love you no matter what, just like you loved me.”
There was a pause, and then out of nowhere, Granny opened her eyes. She stared right into mine. She saw me. She knew me. I know it. She squeezed my hand hard.
“Granny. I’m here.”
Her mouth opened. Pie.
A curtain fell behind her eyes and she was gone.
I didn’t cry. Not then. I just kissed her forehead and sat with her, holding her hand, stroking it with my thumb. It felt like she was still in the room. “Granny, I’m here,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure everything’s perfect.”
Then I called the others. Their eyes welled up, but nothing more. It was such a release. Dad phoned the funeral home. The next day, Granny was ready for cremation. I made sure she was wearing her plaid dress and the red purse she slung over her shoulder; Aunt Teddi kept her scarf, like she’d have wanted. I put a picture of us all in her hands.
Granny looked like she did when she was asleep on the comfy couch. I stroked her hair. She wasn’t there now. All the same I whispered, “It’s okay, Granny. I’ll take care of you to the end.”
I told Mom and Dad I wanted to be at the cremation. They didn’t know if they could handle it. I said I’d understand if they stayed home, but I had to be there to know everything went right. They decided to come with me. So did Aunt Teddi. They were glad they did.
The operator was very nice. He slid Granny’s coffin into the chamber just so and closed the door. We said a prayer. It was time. I asked if it would be okay for me to start things. The operator said yes. As I pressed the button, Granny filled me up: Thank you. The world was sky.
Back at the Bird House, we scattered Granny’s ashes around the bird baths and feeders and the bottom of the drain spout where Granny and I searched for elves. I couldn’t have imagined it better.
* * *
I think a lot about Granny’s story — her stories. I wonder about the stories I’ll never know from before I was born. I think about my stories, too: the ones Granny will never know; that even I don’t know yet.
Mostly I think about the stories we shared: the ones that run through my mind like that piece of music you never forget.
I miss Granny. I always will. But not in a sad way. More in wonder, I guess, that Granny and I are together whenever I think of her, even when I’m alone.
THANKS
Many thanks to Karen McGavin and Bruce Rivers of Covenant House, James O’Donnell of Artatorture Tattoo Studio, Jo Altilia of Literature for Life, Connie Vanderfleen of Community Care Access Centre, Dr. Sam Munn, the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, the Toronto Arts Council, Chloe Sackur, Michelle Anderson, Julie Neubauer and as always, Daniel Legault and Mom.
A chat with
ALLAN STRATTON
Where did the original idea for The Way Back Home come from?
I’d written a few pages of a teen diary for an adult novel. I loved the character to bits — she was so vulnerable and edgy — and I wanted to know her more.
How did the book develop?
With tons of conversations with my editor, Charlie. Great editors are like great teachers: they tell you what you need to hear whether you like it or not.
Granny and Teddi weren’t characters in the first draft! Zoe ran away on her own and her story followed her random encounters. She was angry, but only for herself. Halfway through, both my editor and I realized the book was missing a core relationship to care about. In the course of brainstorming, I thought of my mom who died of Alzheimer’s and who’d hated the idea of being in a nursing home. Suddenly Granny was born, and things fell into place.
If Zoe’s relationship to Granny is based on your relationship with your mom, how much of the novel is true?
Like Zoe says at the end, truth is slippery. I’d say it’s true emotionally and in some of the details and dialogue, but not in the overall plot.
Like Zoe, I was the only person Mom trusted. When she’d get angry, I’d ask myself why I’d be upset if I were her. How would I feel if people I thought were strangers woke me up and tried to undress me for a bath? Why would I want company in the toilet? Why wouldn’t I want a doctor to ask me questions? Imagining from her point of view, she made total sense.
One of the true scenes: I went to the cremation, made sure her coffin was straightened, and pressed the button. I’d fought for Mom for years as she’d fought for me when I was little. It was something I wanted and needed to do. I’m so glad I did. After, like Zoe says, the world was sky.
The Way Back Home doesn’t shy away from big themes like family dysfunction, bullying and discrimination. Do you start with themes? Are there particular ideas you want to impart?
No, I only think about character and story: themes emerge from that, not the other way around. I compare it to running a race: you focus on the finish line; sweat flows as a natural byproduct. For me, story is the race; themes emerge on their own from that.
That said, I call my books my “brain babies” because they come out of my head — and what comes out of anyone’s head is connected to their experience. So the stories and characters I write about are always rooted in my life. In that way, I suppose, the themes in my novels are the themes in my life. Whatever’s imparted is unconscious; it’s in how my readers interpret the way I see life.
You started as an actor and playwright. Does that influence the way you write novels?
Absolutely. Writing first person is like writing a monologue. And for every character in every scene I ask, “What do I want? What am I going to do to get what I want?” Imagining myself into the characters makes writing like a one-person improv. On my best days, it’s like I’m not even
writing; the characters are speaking and I find myself laughing, frightened and crying by the things they say — sometimes secrets I hadn’t even imagined. Those days are magic.
Any advice for young writers?
First. Read, read, read. Write, write, write.
Second. When in doubt, cut it out. Gardens look so much better when they’ve been weeded.
Third. Read your work aloud. Privately, it helps enormously in catching errors and in getting your rhythms right. With friends, it lets you know what parts are working and what parts are putting people to sleep!
Also Available
The Dogs
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4431-4829-0
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4431-4270-0
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch something moving by the barn.
When I look, it disappears. Wait. There it is again, at the cornfield.
Some movement, some thing.
Mom and I have been on the run for years. Every time he catches up with us, we move to a new place and start over.
But this place is different.
This place is full of secrets. And they won’t leave me alone.
Praise for The Dogs
Winner of the Red Maple Award
A Quill & Quire Book of the Year
“Stratton masterfully constructs a creepy gothic setting … An engrossing blend of murder mystery and family story.”
—Kirkus, starred review
“A skilfully written psychological thriller with plenty of suspense and chills.”
—Michele Landsberg, CBC Radio
“This is an accoumplished, gripping and thoughtful story, whose dramatic ending delivers on every level … An edge-of-your-seat psychological thriller.”
—The Guardian, UK
The Way Back Home Page 16