I’m a man who knows who he is—I always have. I stand up for what I know is right, and I fiercely protect what’s mine. Once I make up my mind about something, I don’t waver. I may joke around and keep things light-hearted most of the time, but unflinching loyalty and steely conviction are at the very heart of me.
But there are moments that have marked my life—where an overwhelming sense of clarity washes over me, and a new sense of purpose arises. Like the click of a kaleidoscope bringing everything into focus, or veins of water running down a window to leave a clear pane of glass, these flashes make the pieces of my life fall firmly into place. This … right here and now … is one of those moments.
“Remembering? Feeling loss? It’s a normal part of the human condition. I think grieving can be a way for us to stay connected to the ones we’ve lost. Do you know what else is part of the human condition?” A slight head tilt is the only answer she gives me. “Living, Celia. Even in the face of unimaginable loss, it’s okay to live.”
Her lashes flutter closed, and her body shudders as her forehead taps mine.
“Thank you,” she whispers as she tucks her head under my chin.
Slowly, her breathing evens out, and I fear I have a sleeping fairy on my hands. While looking for the keys I dropped when I found her, I spot the empty glass and turned over bottle of wine next to the swing. Now the pity party makes sense—alcohol-induced grieving at its finest.
I grab the key ring beside me and lift her tiny body to mine as I stand and make my way to the back door. I cradle her into my chest, and she gives no indication of waking. I fumble through the lock and carry her to her bedroom, flinging her flip-flops in the corner as I go. I lay her on top of the covers and grab an orange crocheted blanket off the bottom of the bed. I lay it gently on top of her as she sighs sleepily into her pillow. I kneel on the floor beside her, trailing my thumb down her wet cheek before cradling her chin.
“I’m gonna teach you to live again, Tink. Just you watch,” I whisper, knowing she doesn’t hear a word I’m saying.
And just like that, my life clicks into focus. I’ve found my new purpose.
“Strip Me” by Natasha Bedingfield
The Past
“ONLY FIVE MORE steps, Eleanor, you can do it,” Janey, the physical therapist, cheers as Grams ambles between the two walking poles.
Grams steps forward on her right foot with no trouble, pushing closer to her goal. The left foot slowly trudges forward to follow suit. I see the wheels turning in her brain. Nothing is fluid, every single movement carefully planned. Compensation is the name of the game. Simple movements that used to be automatic and effortless take extreme thought. Grams is giving it her all, and I’m so damn proud of her.
I see a man approach me from the side, and I turn to greet him. He looks to be in his late twenties, early thirties at most, and has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Celia?” he asks expectantly, and I nod at him. “I’m Harold, and I’ll be the nurse taking care of your grandmother when she returns home. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Hey Harold. It’s great to meet you, too.” I release a sigh of relief and smile at him. “I have to be honest with you, I’m so glad to see you. The thought of Grams coming home and me being responsible for her care? It’s all a bit overwhelming. I can’t believe how fast everything is happening.”
He smiles and squeezes my shoulder in reassurance. “That’s the way it happens these days. The doctors want the patients up and moving as soon as possible after a stroke. It’s what’s best for their recovery. Between the nurse’s aides and me, someone will be staying with Grams almost full-time when she returns home, and then we’ll slowly decrease the hours as she improves.”
“Okay,” I whisper, trying to absorb the new information, getting used to my new normal.
His hand reaches for mine. “And Celia,” he says, squeezing gently. “She’s doing great. Your Grams is a fighter, I can tell. She’s my favorite kind of patient.”
I release a quick sigh. “That’s good to hear, because she’s my favorite kind of grandmother.”
He winks at me as he walks farther into the room, clapping and cheering Grams’s progress. I can tell he’s a “take no prisoners” type of nurse, much like all of her caretakers. That’s been the attitude ever since her recovery began, and she’s flourished. There’s no time for crying and feeling sorry for herself—there’s far too much work to be done for that kind of foolishness. Grams wouldn’t have it any other way.
After beating back the burning in my nose and blocking the tears I refuse to let fall, I meet her at the finish line with a beaming smile.
“That’s fantastic, Grams! You’ll be running races in no time.”
She beams right back at me, then lowers her head in concentration. “Proud … me?”
“Am I proud of you?” She nods. “Of course I am. I can’t believe how far you’ve come in just a few short weeks.”
“We’re all very proud of your grandmother, Celia. She has more determination in her pinky than some of my clients have in their whole body. That’s what makes the difference. That’s why she’s going home,” Janey explains while she assists Grams in transferring to her walker. The hot pink tennis balls lodged onto the walker’s feet glide across the floor before we move out of the way. If she had to get a walker, Grams insisted on hot pink tennis balls—no way would she sport those generic yellow ones.
“Hold on, Speedy Gonzales, where do you think you’re going?” Harold asks, laughter laced through his voice.
Grams stops moving, and her eyebrows furrow. “Time. It’s time,” she says, looking from the clock on the wall to the door. “Stefano.”
I let out a whoop of laughter. “Of course, she can’t miss Days of Our Lives. No wonder she raced to the finish line today. Like sands through the hourglass…”
Grams raps her hand on the walker handle, signaling me to follow. I relish in her bossiness. Hell, I’m even grateful for it. I walk closely by her side as she leaves the gym.
“Later, Janey and Harold. Stefano waits for no one,” I call out over my shoulder as I follow Grams to her room.
“I’ll come see you in her room later, Celia. We need to get our ducks in a row for discharge later this week,” Harold calls out.
I give Harold a thumbs-up, and laugh to myself when I see Grams doing the exact same thing.
“Do you want the chocolate or strawberry?” I ask, making Vanna White gestures at each of the saran-covered plates. “They’re both sugar free, so no fooling around.”
“Cake, yes,” Grams replies after several moments. “Choc…”
I wait for her to complete the word, but it doesn’t come. After removing the saran wrap, I place the chocolate cake and spoon on the table in front of her.
“I prefer strawberry, anyway.” I scoop up a bite of cake and chew slowly, focusing on the television.
I see Grams struggling with her spoon out of the corner of my eye, but avert my eyes and resist the urge to help. While she fumbles a bit with utensils and fine motor movements in general, she manages well enough. The nurses and therapists are sticklers for independence around here. If Grams doesn’t ask for help, I don’t dare offer it. Even if she asks, rather than just doing it for her, the workers help her to find a new solution.
Communication is probably the most challenging thing for us to get used to. Grams has never been short on opinions, and she’s always doled them out liberally. It hurts me to watch her struggle to find the words. She understands me when I speak to her, and she desperately wants to respond. It’s just not that easy anymore. I usually get the gist of what she’s trying to tell me, but it requires immeasurable patience on both of our parts.
I know the rules—the speech therapist drills them into my brain every time I speak to her. Keep eye contact with Grams and show her I’m interested in what she’s saying. Speak slowly and give her a chance to process my words. Don’t finish her sentences. Be patient and allow her the time
to complete her thought, whether it be by words, pointing, or hand gestures. The most important thing is getting her point across, no matter how she goes about doing it. There’s a saying—“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” Well, that man is now front and center for everyone to see, and it breaks my heart for Grams.
But every small step is a glimmer of hope, and when you add them all together, the glimmer becomes a beam. She renews my waning faith.
I wish I could say the same about my Lucas. As one light in my life gets stronger and brighter, the other one slowly turns into fading embers.
“I need to ask you something, Grams. I need your advice,” I say, guilt circling my gut as I prepare to do the unthinkable. Am I really going to place this burden on her?
“Baby,” she whispers, placing her spoon on the plate and reaching for my hand.
Her eyes tell me to continue. She’s the only mother I’ve ever known, and I need her help. While the adult in me feels embarrassed, the child in me craves guidance. I don’t know where else to turn.
“If I think Lucas is sick … if I feel it deep down in my heart that something’s not right, should I tell Mrs. Cindy and Mr. Gene? I know he wouldn’t want me to, but sometimes love means doing what’s best for that person, regardless of how they feel about it. Don’t you think?”
I search her eyes for understanding, and she crooks her head to the side before slapping my hand.
“Ow! What was that for?” I jerk back, holding my stinging hand close to my chest.
“Whole story … little girl. Now.” Her words may come out slow, but there’s no mistaking the stern tone.
“All right, all right. I’ll tell you everything,” I relent—eyes lowered and heart heavy.
I know the minute the words leave my lips, there’s no taking them back. What is it about saying things out loud that makes them all the more real?
“You see, Grams, I don’t think Lucas is sick with any type of physical illness.” I wring my hands together, watching my skin turn white and pink with the push and release of pressure. I gather my courage and force my gaze upward, meeting familiar eyes filled with understanding and acceptance. “I … I think something may be wrong with…” Just say it already. “I think something may be wrong with his mind, Grams.”
“I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab For Cutie
The Past
“UM, MRS. CINDY, CAN I talk to you, please?”
Lucas’s mom jumps two feet in the air and shrieks before turning around. I suppose the running water muffled my approach.
“Celia Marie, what on Earth? I think I just saw Jesus.” Her hand is plastered to her rapidly rising and falling chest.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry,” I mumble, my eyes darting to the kitchen entrance, afraid the Landry cavalry will show up to investigate the ruckus. So much for being discreet.
“I’m just a little jumpy today,” Mrs. Cindy explains, waving her hand in the air, showing off the huge wet handprint in the center of her silk blouse. “Don’t worry about it for a second, sweet girl.”
I shuffle forward, resisting the urge to run in the opposite direction. Every time my body fights against the forward motion, I replay Grams’s advice in my head. Her words were slow, deliberate, but filled with conviction.
Fight for those you love. Be strong. Don’t hide.
“I need to talk to you about—” My eyes shift back to the door, and my voice drops to a faint whisper. “I need to talk to you about Lucas.”
Mrs. Cindy grabs the towel from the counter and dries her hands. She busies herself rearranging spices, folding the dishrag, wiping the counter. She busies herself, well, doing nothing really. It’s subtle, but I see it for what it is.
She knows something is wrong.
“He’s been so busy lately, I know it. It’s crazy how much pressure those professors put on my boy. It’s a wonder he doesn’t buckle under all that stress.” Her voice is artificially cheerful, and she won’t meet my eyes.
“The thing is, I don’t think Lucas is going to class anymore. He doesn’t leave home in the mornings. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he’s left the house at all.” I crimp the edge of the placemat between my fingers, watching as I fold and unfold the fabric. I take a seat on one of the barstools to show my level of commitment. I’m not walking out. I’m here to discuss this, and I’m not leaving until we do.
“He’s been working on a independent project for a while now. It’s difficult to keep him interested in the mainstream course load. His professors choose to challenge him in different ways,” she explains, her tone sounding as if she’s trying to convince herself as well as me.
“I’ve also noticed he isn’t bathing regularly. His clothes are often dirty, and I have to prompt him to clean himself up. I’ve never known Lucas to be this way.” I’m embarrassed to say this out loud. I’m not talking about a young boy who hates to bathe. Lucas is a grown man, and it twists my gut to say these words about him—to talk about him without his knowledge. I just pray he doesn’t hate me for it.
“I know it’s hard for you or me to understand, dear,” she says evenly. “But Lucas can sometimes forget the tedious things in life while focusing on his work. It’s our job to remind him. Thank you for doing that. Is that all, Celia?”
I realize her words for what they are—I’m being dismissed.
“No, it isn’t. There’s more, and I can tell you don’t want to hear it, but—” I stand up, feeling the need to take a defensive stance.
“You’re right, I don’t. I really don’t appreciate you speaking about Lucas this way—”
“I’ve seen his notebooks, the ones for his schoolwork. It’s nothing but…” I interrupt; my voice cracks and tears fill my eyes. I silently plead with her to hear me. “It’s nothing but gibberish. The same number written over and over for pages, in a variety of patterns, sometimes changing the look of the number. It’s not work for school, Mrs. Cindy. I’m sure of it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Celia. You’re confused.” She throws down the dishrag and grips the counter to stop the tremble I see in her hands. She clenches her eyes closed, and I know for certain she’s wishing away me and my accusations.
It’s just not that easy.
“I’m not confused. You know I’m not, I can tell. But he is.” I follow her to the doorway, talking to her back as she retreats. “I hear him talking to himself an awful lot.”
Her back straightens, and she stops abruptly. I nearly fall into her as she whips around and points her finger to my chest.
“You watch your mouth!”
Her hand flies to her mouth, and she gasps. Her harsh tone momentarily stuns me into silence. Her eyes are filled with tears and anger, but I see the pain and denial swirling below the surface.
“I love him,” I tell her. She shakes her head, as if it can erase all the words we’ve exchanged. “You know I do, and I think he needs to see someone. I think something may be very wrong.”
She eyes me through watery lashes. Her shoulders are slumped, and she says nothing.
So I wait. Acceptance is difficult and painful. I’ll give her all the time she needs.
“I know things with Lucas may seem a bit … odd … right now, but I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions.” She swipes the tears on her cheeks, and a sad smile tugs at her lips. “I love my boy, Celia, eccentricities and all. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”
“I love him, too. So much.”
She holds up a hand to stop me from talking. “I know you do, but these assumptions … well, they’re dangerous, Celia. You could end up hurting him.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I cross my arms tightly and bite a hole through my tongue. How could she think I’d ever do anything to hurt Lucas?
“Assumptions are a dangerous thing. The words you say carry weight, Celia. There could be repercussions, and not just for Lucas. I’m sure you understand what I mean
.”
I bristle at what she’s insinuating, and I pray I’m wrong. Am I hearing her right?
“I’m not sure I do,” I reply as I clench my fists, my fingernails cutting my palms from the pressure.
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you, Celia.”
I jump at the sound of Lucas’s voice and spin around, cheerful mask fully in place. On a good day, he is not very observant, so I hope he overlooks his mother’s teary eyes. I’m not sure how I would explain that.
“Hey, I was just asking your mom if she needed help in the kitchen. I didn’t hear you walk in,” I say brightly, walking to meet him halfway.
He grabs my hand as I approach and squeezes affectionately, his head crooking to the side. “Is everything okay? Did I interrupt something?”
“No dear, no,” Mrs. Cindy interjects, effectively diverting his attention. She brushes a hand through his recently shaggy brown hair and smiles. “Celia and I were just saying how the two of you should have a night out tonight. The movies, maybe? Dinner?”
Lucas furrows his brow and shakes his head. “I’m not really feeling up to a crowd tonight,” he says, giving me an apologetic smile. “Maybe we could rent a movie? Order some pizza? How does that sound, Celia?”
I press my lips into a thin smile and nod. I’m not surprised he wants to stay home. That’s all he wants to do these days. “That sounds perfect. Why don’t you grab a shower, and I’ll choose a movie.”
Mrs. Cindy doesn’t miss my hygiene comment, made evident by a little twitch of her lips. It may be a low blow, but I won’t hide my observations from her anymore. If I want to help Lucas through whatever this is, his family needs to be on board with me. She needs to be aware of these things—the inconsistencies in the Lucas I’ve known all my life and the Lucas standing before me now.
Storms Over Secrets Page 6