The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma

by Iain Reid

  “Yes, the whoopie pants. I wonder if anyone still has a pair locked away in some closet. Iain, dear, I never knew you had such an interest in women’s fashion. It’s great,” she says, reaching across the table, putting her hand on mine. It’s the first time she’s done something like this. “I’ve known you all these years and there’s still so much I’m learning about you.”

  WE’RE ONLY BITES — me many and Grandma two — into our meal when I detect that her sandwich is missing the promised horseradish mayo. She doesn’t seem bothered by the miscue. But I am. It’s a worthy addition.

  “Here, Grandma, take some of this sauce, it’s pretty good.”

  “No, no, that’s yours. I’m fine, really.”

  I beckon the sandalled waitress over with a hand wave. “Um, sorry, but you guys forget the horseradish sauce for her steak.” I also want to suggest that covering her diaphoretic feet while she’s serving food isn’t a dreadful idea.

  “Okay.” She offers her watch a tiny glance, surely for our benefit — a quick visual memo of how late it is. “I’ll be right back.”

  I don’t know why, but before she walks away I blurt that Grandma is ninety-two. The server freezes, takes a step back, looks over Grandma, and declares, “Amazing.” Her delivery is too actressy, and the word is laced with a car-salesman panache. I immediately regret saying anything.

  For a while we refocus on our fare. We’re hungry. We eat and drink. And then Grandma sets her cutlery down on the sides of her plate like the oars of a boat. She carefully wipes both sides of her mouth and swallows before speaking. “It was my dad who came out to Canada first, you know, before the rest of the family.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.” I set my own fork down.

  “Oh, sure. I suppose the plan was to get settled with a job and such. And then we would come after. I never asked him why Canada or even why they decided we should leave Scotland.”

  “They must have had a reason.”

  “He didn’t have much training for work. He’d been a baker in the Old Country. But when he got to Canada, the only work he could get was as a labourer. He looked after horses, because his father had had a horse-and-cart business back in Scotland. They transported fish to London. Anyway, it wasn’t long then, before any of the rest of us came over, that the war broke out in Europe and he signed up with the Canadian army.”

  “First World War?”

  “Yup. He fought overseas. And luckily, he survived. We all moved out to the Prairies after the war. He started working as a custodian in a school. We really got on well. I got along best with my dad, I think. He’d tease me all the time. Once, I fell asleep after dinner and he took some ash from the fireplace and smudged a dark mustache above my lip. He’d also do things like, if we were all sitting at the table for tea, he’d just take his spoon out of his hot tea after stirring it and without saying anything place it down on my hand.” Grandma puts her index finger onto the back of my hand in place of a hot spoon. “Just like that. I’d always make a big fuss, like I was completely shocked, like it really burned. But I always knew it was coming. That was the whole thing.”

  Grandma starts to cough as if the memory has dislodged a small piece of food in the back of her throat. She holds her hand up to say she’s okay, but takes a sip of her water, then her wine. Her face is still red from coughing when she continues.

  “He fought at Vimy. But he couldn’t talk about it.”

  “Ever?”

  “No, never. And after the war he always got tight on Christmas Day and Remembrance Day. Other than that he never drank.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Maybe he told my mother everything that happened, I don’t know, but not us kids. I just know the way he was and his personality and I know it would have been very hard on him, seeing all the things he saw. When I got older and read about what happened at Vimy and in the trenches and what he would have seen . . .”

  She pauses. It’s difficult to tell if she’s going to cough again. Her eyes are full of life and expression and are going on without her, trying to finish her story non-verbally. I have to look away.

  I wonder how I would do in war. How I would cope with life in a foxhole or trench? I grew up on a small farm, played sports, studied at university, and then started working. The idea of being engaged in active combat, sleeping in mud with fleas and rats, eating limited rations, and seeing my friends injured and killed seems almost beyond comprehension to me.

  “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. Gra
ndma 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.”