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

by Iain Reid

  I’m finding that these tangents in her stories are some of my favourite parts. There’s much she’s forgotten, so there must be some reason these moments have lodged themselves in her consciousness. They seem to come out of nowhere, as if she’s surprising herself with them.

  Grandma saw what you see when you’re part of war, when you’re living it every day, when an earlier reality is overhauled and rebuilt as something unfamiliar. Sights that were previously unimaginable were made reliably probable.

  “I’d been tending to a patient who arrived with a badly broken leg when there was a ruckus outside. I went out with the other nurses on duty. Not far down the road, a procession was coming toward the hospital. There was lots of commotion. They were loud, emotional. It wasn’t obvious if they were angry or distressed.

  “As they got closer I could see they were very upset. There were men and women. There were children. They were all weeping, calling out toward the hospital. They had a wooden wagon. Inside the wagon was a middle-aged Sicilian man. A farmer. He’d been out working, plowing his fields or planting. It was uncertain what he’d been doing, but while he was doing it, he’d hit a mine.

  “The group was asked to wait outside. The farmer was removed from the wagon and brought in. Once in the operating room, I knew from the number and severity of the injuries that nothing could be done. It wasn’t long after arriving that he died.”

  “I guess in a weird way it would have been worse when it was something like that,” I say. “When it was just a family and a farmer.”

  “I was lucky I didn’t see more of that type of thing. That one sticks out in my mind because of the family being there, I think . . .”

  For a while we don’t talk. Then I ask Grandma if she’s hungry. She wonders if we should go back and try the restaurant that was closed yesterday. As I get my jacket on, Grandma remembers her initial reason for coming to my room. She’d almost forgotten the flowers. She suggests I put them on top of my bookshelf.

  That way, she thinks, I can see them from anywhere in the room.

  8:11 p.m.

  “I HAVEN’T THOUGHT about this in years. I really haven’t.”

  We’ve just had our first sips of Chianti. It was Grandma’s idea when we sat down in this booth. We didn’t have to wait to be seated. We dashed in from the car (Grandma was our pacer, so dash might not be the most accurate verbiage). It was her idea to leave the umbrella, despite the rain.

  It’s a different type of grape, but the wine is having the same effect as last night. It’s rendered her into a talkative, nostalgic Grandma. Or maybe it’s all the talking we’ve done today already. I’m still thrown by this. I often go days without use of my vocal cords, and Grandma’s default position is firmly set in listening mode. She’s usually asking about others but rarely is the one to talk about herself, to tell her own stories. To be honest, I didn’t know she had many.

  Combined with her tenacious sense of humour and ability to tease, Grandma’s default setting, when I was growing up, was to sit and ask questions about what each of us was up to. She wanted to know what was keeping us busy. She wanted to hear what was happening at school or how my basketball team was doing. She wanted to look over any recent photographs, asking about faces she didn’t recognize. She always remembered the names of any of my friends she’d met, and she would ask about them.

  The terrain of adolescence shapes an inadvertently one-sided relationship. The proper footing of reciprocation was too tricky and developed. I would share all of the trivialities of my day but never ask about hers. The only kid who would sit and ask their elderly grandparents about the details of their lives in an attempt to better understand them would be a character from a Wes Anderson film. We understood Grandma through her reaction to our stories. It was her receptivity to our existence that formed her identity. We, the young unintentional solipsists, would talk; Grandma would listen and react. That was her way.

  “Well, that’s good, I’m happy to chat about these things,” I say. “Have a bit more.”

  I top up her glass, even though there’s no room for topping. It’s more a symbolic gesture, I suppose.

  The atmosphere in here is a blend of pub and family restaurant. Probably 60/40 in favour of pub. But the patrons are probably 60/40 in favour of families. There is a large bar on one side of the room and booths along the walls. Tables of varying sizes fill in the rest. You wouldn’t call it fancy, but the expectation is for large portions of comfort food. It’s mostly full tonight. The music, laughter, talking has created an auditory fog of white noise around us.

  “Did you know I love sports?”

  “Well, I know you like watching hockey, Grandma.”

  “But I mean I love playing sports.”

  “Yeah, I knew you played tennis and curled. And that rugby game you played overseas. And you still play golf, right?”

  “Yup. But it just wasn’t as easy back in my day.”

  “Really?”

  “I can remember being in Winnipeg in the twenties. In the winter there were outdoor rinks all over. The girls were supposed to just skate around while the boys played hockey. That’s just the way it was. Can you imagine? I hated that.”

  “You wanted to play hockey?”

  “Of course. It’s silly for you to think about it today, but I found it ridiculous to think about it then, too. They didn’t want me to play, because I was a girl. So obviously I played.”

  “With other girls?”

  “No, I couldn’t find any other girls to play, or boys, either. It wasn’t really done, I don’t think. But I got Donald to play with me. He agreed to be my goalie. We’d have to go to the rink early in the morning, before school, when no one else was there, and I would just skate up and down and shoot pucks at him. We were always alone out there, and it was very quiet at that time of day. You could hear the skates cutting through the ice, but that was about it. When I think about it, he never complained. He knew I loved playing. He was very good to me.”

  “Yeah, you guys got on pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “We did. But everyone got on well with Donald. He was just . . . that way. He was so easygoing, very accepting of every­one. When we were young, we’d agreed that if either of us ever had any kids, we’d name them after each other.”

  “Do you think he enjoyed playing?”

  “Oh, sure, I think so. I’d score on him more often than not, though. I don’t think he liked that. And he wasn’t letting me, either,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I had a pretty good shot.” Remembering her trash-bin shot this morning, I believe her.

  “And in high school, I was the female sports captain. I think some of the girls would have been embarrassed by that title. I liked it. And truth be told, I had my eye on the male captain. He was the best athlete in the school, but not cocky. He was quiet.” She laughs. “He never really noticed me, though.”

  I smile. I don’t want to get her off track, but the waitress is lurking. She wants to take our order. We haven’t even opened our menus yet.

  “Why don’t you order for both us?” says Grandma. “I think you know what I like by now.”

  Yes, I do. She likes everything. “Okay,” I say.

  I order a margherita pizza and some sweet potato fries on the side. I’ve seen a couple of pizzas come out of the kitchen. It appears to be high-quality wheel.

  “I knew by high school what I wanted to do,” Grandma continues when the waitress leaves with our order. “But the thing was, by the time I finished high school, well, I was still too young to get in.”

  “Get in where?”

  “Winnipeg General. I wanted to be a nurse. I knew it even then.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to do. That was all I wanted. But my mother didn’t want me sitting around and waiting. So she decided I should sign up for business classes.”r />
  “Really?”

  “Yup, my sister Della was teaching the classes. It wasn’t long after I started studying there that I became of age and was accepted to the hospital.”

  “And how long was the nursing program?”

  “It was going to be for three years. Of course my first roommate only made it through three months and then she was gone. There was a lot to learn, and I remember we had a very demanding instructor in our first year. A lot of the students didn’t get along with her.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “I didn’t have any problems with her. Well, except once. She caught me sleeping on a shift. I was working in the baby ward during the overnight shift and was exhausted. I think I’d been out to a dance the night before. Anyhow, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to just sit down for a few minutes and close my eyes.”

  “And you got caught?”

  “I was sitting up but using my cap as a pillow and I must have really dozed off, because I was woken up by the instructor’s voice saying my name. That’s all she said, but she said it loudly and with anger. Some of the other girls thought I was done for, but she never mentioned it again. So I guess we did kind of get along. Just lucky, I guess.”

  This is the most talkative Grandma’s been. Not just on our trip, but maybe ever. I’m not certain what’s putting her in this mood; it’s not just the wine. I definitely want to encourage it. Something about the trip, or Kingston, has greased her wheels of recollection. “What else happened?”

  “It’s so long ago now, but I remember there was a lot to learn. In my second year I failed a big exam. I couldn’t believe it. Again some of the girls thought I was in for it. I ended up getting called down to see the nursing superintendent.”

  “What happened?”

  “The problem was I hadn’t bothered to memorize everything. That’s what we were supposed to do, memorize the material. I didn’t see the point in that.”

  “But you understood it?”

  “Oh, sure, I knew it like the back of my hand, but just not in the same exact phrasing we were taught. I knew it, all right. I just said it in my own words.”

  “And what did they do?”

  “I guess they let me redo the exam. I decided I’d better toe the line and do it the way they wanted. So I memorized it.”

  Her eyes are lighting up, twinkling again. My mind is eared to her words.

  “In our third year, our last year, we worked six days a week. And on the seventh we still worked, but just a half-day. Remember, this was still before the war; good thing I was young.”

  “Craziness,” I say. “I feel like there’s so much talk about how we work too much now, how work has taken over our lives. But I don’t think any school or college could get away with working their students six and a half days a week.”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe the difference now is not being able to leave work. When we stopped working, we stopped. We did other things. We weren’t always connected to it the way it seems people are now with their computers and phones. I’m not sure.”

  Our supper arrives. I can smell the fresh basil. The cheese on the pizza is bubbling around the edges when they lay it down at our table. The server sets the orange fries beside the pizza. They’re in a lattice-style basket. There’s a spicy dipping sauce that comes with them.

  “I’ve talked your ear off again,” says Grandma, placing her napkin over her lap. “It must be all this good food. I never talk like this at home.”

  “It’s interesting, Grandma.”

  “Well, you must be starving. Dig in,” she says.

  “You first,” I reply.

  “No, no, you go first.”

  I take her plate and give her a slice and some fries.

  “Why am I talking so much?” she says again, more to herself, ignoring the food. “It really is silly. You don’t need to hear all this.”

  “It’s not at all. We’ve known each other my entire life, but there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”

  “I’m not used to talking like this, I guess,” she says. “I just don’t want to bore you.”

  “I’m not either, Grandma. And you don’t have to worry about that.”

  Grandma slowly brings her glass up, asking for a cheers. I clink hers with mine. “Here’s to stories,” she says. “Old and new.”

  “And memories,” I say.

  She holds up her glass a moment longer as I take my sip. “Yes,” she says, “and to not letting them go to waste.”

  9:18 p.m.

  THE RAIN IS still falling when we (Grandma) pay the bill and head back out to the car. This time we don’t jog. I go first and pull my car up as close to the door as I can. I watch her hold her jacket together at the neck, bow her head, and step carefully around the puddles. Her limp is worse. “Your car’s sounding a little loud tonight. Is it running okay?”

  “Yup, I think so. It’s always pretty loud.”

  I pull out onto the road. There’s very little traffic in Kingston at this time. The headlights of the few cars we pass reflect up off the wet asphalt.

  “Did you see the woman eating alone in the restaurant?” Grandma asks about five minutes into our drive.

  “Which one?” I ask.

  But I know who she’s talking about. I saw her. She was an elderly lady in brown cords, a black sweater, and glasses.

  She was drinking coffee from a white mug and eating a sandwich on whole wheat bread; a grilled cheese, I think. Her hands were thin and heavily wrinkled. She had short hair under her beret-style cap. Her jacket had been set un-neatly on the back of her chair. She appeared quite content eating her supper alone. So it’s strange I found the scene agonizing.

  “She was the one a few tables over to our right,” says Grandma. “She was eating a sandwich, I think.”

  She obviously made an impression on Grandma as well. “Yeah, I do remember her. Kinda sad, I thought, she had to eat alone.”

  Alone is my default meal position. It’s been strange to share meals with another human this week. So it’s not just the woman’s aloneness that I found gloomy. Something else, I’m not sure what.

  Grandma turns toward me. “I didn’t think she seemed sad. Not at all. I thought how nice it was that she was treating herself to dinner at a restaurant. She must not have felt like cooking tonight.”

  “But I wonder if she’s alone.” I meant to say, I wonder if she’s lonely.

  “Maybe,” says Grandma. “I would like to think she might be alone and that she likes it.”

  I exhale to respond. I think I know what Grandma means. I think I do.

  “When I go to the mall,” she says, “to pay bills at the bank or get my hair done, sometimes I walk down to the other end. And I’ll be alone. There’s a Bulk Barn there where I can get honey-coated cashews and smoky almonds. There’s also a little restaurant. Sometimes I’ll just go in and sit down and treat myself. Just for a coffee, or breakfast if I’m hungry. Nothing fancy. I ask for one sausage and some scrambled eggs.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It is.”

  We pull into the driveway. We don’t dawdle outside tonight like we did last night. The rain is too heavy, and again Grandma’s hopeful we can catch the end of the hockey game. Her Ottawa Senators are playing, the second night of a back-to-back. I make us some fennel and ginger tea, which I can’t believe I have, as she settles in front of the game.

  While I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, she calls out that Ottawa is losing 3–0. By the time I get to the TV with our beverage, it’s 3–1. Grandma is sitting on the couch with a pillow behind her back and one at her side.

  As we watch the game, sipping our tea, I’m still thinking about that woman in the restaurant and thinking about Grandma eating her one-sausage breakfast alone in the mall restaurant.

  With Ottawa scoring another
goal, making the score 3–2, Grandma has perked up again. “I guess all that talking at supper has put me in a reminiscent mood . . . I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s great, Grandma. It’s interesting to hear this stuff. I didn’t know any of it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I hate to even bring this up, it’s really quite silly of me, but I put a few old pictures into my grip before you picked me up. Would you like to see them?” I intuit that she almost didn’t ask. It required great effort on her part.

  “I would love to.”

  She retreats to her room. I sit alone with the muted commercials. I’m looking at them but not watching them closely. The images seem to move even faster, seem more absurd and circusy, more pompous and visually irritating, without sound. Down the hall I hear rummaging.

  When Grandma returns, she’s wearing her reading glasses and humming under her breath. She has a stack of photos in her hand. They aren’t in a book or envelope. They’re just loose in her hand. She sits beside me on the couch. We both sit stooped under the single lamp.

  “Here,” she says, passing me the first one. “This one’s of your grandpa and me. We were still living in the apartment then.”

  The photo is smaller than I’m used to seeing. The paper is thicker. It has a white border along the edges. Grandma and Grandpa look to be my age now. The picture is taken outside, beside a tree. Grandma is rake-thin. She’s wearing a long dress that hangs just above her ankles. Grandpa’s in a suit and tie and hat. He has his right arm around her shoulders.

  The next few she hands me are also of her and Grandpa. Several show them on a winter’s day, pulling a sled with their kids, my mom included.

  “Okay, there’s this one, too, and don’t worry, it’s the last.” Grandma turns away as she hands me the picture. She’s re-engaged in the hockey. Ottawa has been pressing, and it looks like they just might complete the comeback. “Now, how’s the game going, how are we doing?” she asks the TV.