“Much better.”
I return the makeup and walk back to her bedside.
“What’s so funny?” she asks. I hadn’t realized I’d been smiling.
“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
She laughs. “I guess all those calcium pills and years at the gym must have done their job.”
When Grandma misjudged the steps and took a tumble, she reached out to break her fall. This saved her from a broken hip and concussion probably, but it broke her wrist. Thankfully, her bones are strong enough that it wasn’t a terrible break.
“Now, if my mind could just get with the program,” she jokes. I can tell it still bothers her that she fell.
“Grandma, you’re fine.” I walk over to the desk. “Speaking of which, do you want to play some games?” I bring her iPad over to the bed. “We could work a puzzle or play the animal game you like?”
She agrees, and we play games and complete puzzles on the iPad for the next couple of hours. Eventually, I can see her eyes droop and her enthusiasm wane. I also see little winces that suggest she might be in pain. I think either her adrenaline from the fall or her stubbornness is wearing off. I ask if she’s in pain. She murmurs no, but her face grimaces even as she says it.
“I’m getting a little tired,” I say to her. “Is it okay if we just put on the TV for a little while?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” She hands me the iPad, and I think I see relief in her eyes.
When the nurse arrives, Grandma agrees that some pain medication would be helpful and doesn’t make one snarky comment about not needing to be here. I worry that there is something wrong, but the nurse assures me her vitals are all good. I think Grandma is just worn out.
After the nurse finishes, I move my chair closer to the bed and give Grandma’s hand a squeeze. She doesn’t let go, so I continue holding her hand as her eyelids flutter closed.
“I’m glad you’re here, Emma,” she says quietly. I give her hand another gentle squeeze.
I can’t help but think back to the day of the funeral, when Grandma and I were riding home from the cemetery in an extra-long shiny black town car. Uncle Jim ordered them for the funeral. I knew Mom and Dad would hate that, but I rode in one anyway. We all couldn’t fit in one car, so Grandma and I had one to ourselves. Aunt Jules was late as usual and drove herself.
On the way home, Grandma and I sat silently in the spacious backseat. I twisted a rose in my hand. It was already odd because the funeral was weeks after it all happened, and then there were no caskets to lay the roses on since Mom, Dad, and Connor were all cremated. So everyone placed the flowers on the ground where the urns would be buried. For some reason, I didn’t lay mine down. I kept it. I guess I wasn’t ready to accept that they were gone.
Grandma looked down and saw me twisting the rose in my hands and said, “Me too.” She lifted the rose that was on the seat next to her. I hadn’t noticed that she kept hers. “I’m not ready either,” she said as if she read my mind.
We rode all the way home in silence as the car seemed to fly through the streets. I knew Grandma understood the parade of regret marching through my mind: all the things I wish I’d said to them and the things I wish I hadn’t. We shared the desperate wish for one last moment with them. Every time I had a thought, she squeezed my hand or twirled her rose. It was a long, quiet ride back to a home as empty as I felt inside, but it was the first time I felt someone really understood.
I watch Grandma now in this hospital room, and she’s dozed off. I’ve felt like an intruder, trying not to disrupt her routine, but I realize that I’ve been helping her as much as she’s been helping me. Without my dad, she’s alone in this world. Her husband is gone and now her son, and the only family she has is oceans away. Sure, she has her friends, but they have their own lives; they can’t be there for her all the time. I’m all she has. And I can’t imagine leaving her now.
I stay overnight, eventually moving to the bench by the window. The nurse comes in every couple of hours to check on Grandma. Nothing is wrong, except Grandma complains that they keep waking her up.
So the next morning, the doctor clears her to leave. While we’re waiting for Cherise, I text Mari to let her know where I am and why I’m not at school today. I tell Grandma that Mari wishes her a quick recovery, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s too busy getting help from the nurse with her hair. She’s definitely okay to leave.
The doctor calls me out into the hallway. He tells me that Grandma’s dementia will only worsen. When it does, she will be at greater risk of falls like this one. She was lucky this time, but as her bones weaken, she could get a concussion or a bone break that would require surgery, and both would put her in much more danger. He tells me that Grandma really needs to consider moving into assisted living. I say there’s little chance of that, but he says I really need to help convince her. He can give us some suggestions.
I walk back into the room, and Grandma is in the bathroom with the nurse. When she comes out, her beaming face matches her yellow pants and matching bright plaid blouse. Her hair is styled, and she’s ready to go. I don’t know how I’m supposed to convince this proud woman to relinquish her independence and the home she loves so much for assisted living. The wheelchair arrives—which annoys her because she’s perfectly fine to walk—and I gather our belongings.
Once we’re home, Cherise takes over. She has offered to stay the whole day. I’m exhausted, so I head to my room for a nap. Before I doze off, I see the Ohio State football on the dresser. I think of Connor and his dream, but I also think of Grandma. How can I leave her here alone? She’s the one person who has really been here for me, who’s given me exactly what I needed. I owe the same to her.
Other than being irritated about her cast and what an annoyance it is to have people serve her, cook for her, and write all her checks for her, Grandma is fine. It doesn’t seem like the best time to talk to her about what the doctor told me, so I hold off.
I’ve taken a leave from work this month. I want to be here for Grandma whenever Cherise isn’t. Plus, I’ve signed up for my final half-marathon on Memorial Day weekend. I want to dedicate more time to getting ready for this race. It’s my last chance.
I finally gave Mari something to give to Ryan, but I haven’t spoken to him or gotten any kind of response. I haven’t even gotten a glance from him in about a month.
“It’s clear he’s moved on,” I say to Mari at lunch one day.
“How is it ‘clear’?” She uses air quotes to show her skepticism.
“I heard some girls in class saying he went to prom with Sarah Shaw last weekend.”
“Well...” She brushes some potato chip crumbs into the planter behind us. “Your information is not 100 percent correct.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Yes, he went to prom, but it was a group thing. He went with a bunch of guys and a few other girls. Not just Sarah Shaw.”
“And how do you know this?”
“It’s amazing the kind of information people spill around you when you’re practically invisible.” She shakes her head. “The things I know about people just because they don’t even notice I’m around.”
I laugh. “You’re not invisible.”
She swallows the rest of her Coke. “Oh no, I’m not looking for a pep talk. My point was, I know Ryan hasn’t ‘moved on,’ as you put it.”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t seem interested in me anymore. He hasn’t responded to my letter.”
“Cool it on the pity party for one and give him another week. Okay? Until then, why don’t you channel some of this energy into preparing for your race this weekend?”
“Fine,” I sulk.
“Aren’t you excited? This is it. This will complete the dream.”
“Yeah, I’m just trying not to psych myself out.”
Mari reaches into her backpack. “That’s smart.”
“And you know there’s added pressure,” I go on, “because I may not be going
to Ohio State or Greece, so this may be the only one of the dreams I achieve.” It settles more into a final decision once I’ve said it aloud.
Her hand freezes inside her bag, and she looks up. “What?”
I explain about Grandma and what the doctor said. She tells me not to quit and to give it more time. Time. I’m not sure what that will do. I see Ryan talking with a few friends across the quad. Time sure hasn’t done much to change that situation.
Chapter 21
The moonlight streams through the window when I hop out of bed before my alarm on Saturday morning. I’m both nervous and excited as I put on my running clothes and carry my shoes and gear out into the living room. I go into the kitchen for a banana, and I write Grandma a note, in case she forgot I have a race today. I sit for a moment at the kitchen table and check my iPod. I have Mom’s iPod for the race today. I haven’t been able to bring myself to use it before, but it feels right for today. I double-check my watch and inventory the rest of my gear twice before I leave. Everything must be right today. It’s my last shot. Mom would turn fifty on June 3.
This race is farther away, but I arrive in plenty of time. I sit on the curb to retie my shoes and pin on my race bib. When I’m done, I scan the swarm of people of all ages. This is the biggest race I’ve run; there are people everywhere. Spectators with dogs and baby strollers and coffee linger with their loved ones. I can’t help but think about Mom and how, if she were here, we’d be lingering with her. I probably would have complained about getting up so early, and Connor would have still been half-asleep. My dad would have made a silly sign for her and would be filling her head with all sorts of motivational sayings that Connor and I would roll our eyes at. Dad was King of the Clichés. But most of all, my mom would have been wearing a giant smile. She would have insisted on a big family hug and told us all that she loved us.
The tears bubble, so I bolt up and walk around. I even take a little jog like the serious runners are doing. I don’t go far, but I keep moving enough to free myself of those thoughts and waste time until the start. The air horn blasts, but my corral group doesn’t start yet. My nerves fray as I bounce my weight from one foot to the other. I’m tired of all the waiting. I want to get moving.
We inch forward until finally it’s our turn. I’m careful to keep my adrenaline in check and start slowly. I do a pretty good job of reining in my thoughts as well. The surprise that comes with each song is helpful, though the music itself is not. I don’t recognize any of the songs yet, and the ’80s beats are a little slow for me. Still, even my silent complaints are a good distraction. The huge mansions along the road and the rocky seaside cliffs on the other side are also great distractions, along with the woman in the panda bear running tights in front of me. My legs hurt, and I feel a bit overheated, but I continue on and only stop to walk in brief spurts. I remind myself that this is it; there’s no chance after this. That thought seems to drive me.
Eventually, though, the importance of the race and the emotion that comes with it oozes in through tiny pinpricks all over me. The panda tights and dream houses can only do so much to keep the thoughts out of my head. A memory of Mom in the kitchen after one of her Saturday runs pops up. It’s followed by the colorful stack of race shirts Aunt Kellie and I found when we went through her drawers, and then I see the race medal on my dresser at Grandma’s. I push away these images immediately because one more may break me totally.
I manage it all until the middle of Mile 7. I’ve been reading the spectator signs all along the route to keep my mind off Mom. I read one here that says, “There will be a day when you can no longer do this. Today is NOT that day.” Immediately, a twisting funnel cloud drills down into my heart. Snapshots of the funeral, my mom being rushed away in the ER, Connor’s Ohio State football, the Greek flag Dad always waved around during the Olympics, the white body bags scattered after the terror attacks, Grandma’s fall, Ryan’s face—it all swirls together, and I’m dizzy and breathless. I slow to a walk.
But even after I’m past the sign and the eye of the storm has moved on, there’s nothing but a pile of rubble in my heart. I’m here, almost at Mile 8 of this race in California, because my mom can no longer do this. I think of how she would have done this, her fiftieth race, and I force myself to admit I’m doing it all wrong; I’m not honoring her at all. My mom wanted to run the Flying Pig race in Cincinnati for her final half-marathon. I knew this, but I told myself it didn’t matter. I convinced myself that any race would do, but it’s just because I was lazy and not brave enough to return to Ohio. I should have flown there to run that race. This is her race, her dream. I should have done it the way she wanted. I let her down.
Water swells in my eyes, and this time, with the thought of my mom and this dream moment that she’ll never have, it’s too much; it’s a raging storm I can’t hold back. Tears stream out of the sides of my eyes as I think of how I’ve not only failed my mom, but I’ve also failed Connor and my dad. I can’t leave Grandma, so they won’t see their dreams come true either. I tried and I failed and I’m so sorry.
The tears start cracking open the doors I’ve worked so hard to keep shut. I’m all alone. Connor, my mom, my dad—they’re gone and they’re never coming back. I’ll never see them again. Not at the breakfast table, not at night watching TV, not on a random Tuesday afternoon. Never. Not one more hug or smile or even one more breath. They’re gone forever.
I strain to wonder what those last moments were like for Connor and my dad. Did they see the man before he set off the bomb? Did they try to escape, or were they blindsided? I envision them scared and in pain in their final moments, and a wave of nausea crashes through me.
The tears turn to sobs, and I have to stop and lean over at the side of the road because my shaky sobbing breath mixing with the strain of running nearly suffocates me. There is a lump in my throat, and it’s difficult to swallow. A few runners slow and look over in my direction, probably wondering if I’m okay. I straighten and continue walking, hiding my silent sobbing as the tears sting my eyes and burn my cheeks.
I try to refocus and set myself right, but I can’t. Every time I start running, some image of my family flies into my mind and the shaky breathing and tears return, forcing me to walk to avoid suffocation. I can’t do it. This race, life without them, our dreams. None of it.
I slow to a stop and let failure settle in. The stillness allows song lyrics to filter through my ears. A soulful male voice laments wounds deep in his heart, so much a part of him that time will never heal them. A beautiful female voice echoes his words and his pain as he wonders who else is out there—in this vast world—just trying to breathe. It’s out of his hands, his voice sings in a near whisper as the instruments become quiet with him. He—we—seem ready to give up, but then with the strum of a guitar and crescendo of drums, his voice surges and he cries out to free her. He sings the lyrics like a desperate plea and a triumph at the same time. The music is a bird being let go into the air or a balloon rising higher and higher. With each measure that he begs to free her, I start to feel lighter, like I am being freed. Power surges inside me as the music fills every inch of my veins. Not just the physical power to begin running but the power to make it to the finish line of my own life even if I’m all alone.
I don’t know why it happens at this exact moment. I can only assume it’s the same magical wand I’ve wondered about since the day of the attack, that wand that waves and makes certain things happen in life. Because how else can you explain what happened to my family? Why them? Why that baseball stadium? Why that day? Why not some other girl’s family at some other place on some other day? It can’t be explained except to say there must be some sort of magical wand that deems these things will happen. And it must have waved itself again in this moment to bring this song and these lyrics and my stillness together with this fragment of resolve I still have left in me.
I take a few deep breaths, wipe my face on my shirt, and my legs start moving. This time when the panic and
fear and loneliness set in and the hyperventilating wants to return, I am able to muscle it away. I can hold their faces in my heart while the lyrics help me free myself from the rest of it.
For five miles, I play this song on repeat. One song and the release of a year of stifled emotion carry me all the way to Mile 13. At that point, I remove my earbuds. I want to hear the cheers and feel every moment of this finish settle on me. Heads peer over the side rails as I run, feeling stronger than ever, toward the finish line. I feel my mom running beside me and more tears pour down my face. When I cross the finish line, the male voice announces, “And we have Alice Loukas of Cincinnati, Ohio.” I signed up as my mom. More tears stream as the young volunteer puts the medal around my neck. She asks me if I’m okay and I tell her I am. I really am.
I walk forward and wipe my face with my hand. I collect my banana, chocolate milk, and bagel and nearly drop all three when I see Ryan standing right there at the end of the finishing chute. He’s got a bottle of water, the tattered “Go Emma!” sign, and a sweet smile. My grandma is right next to him.
“Huh?” I mutter as I walk closer, wondering if I’m seeing correctly through my teary eyes.
My grandma grabs me for a hug with one arm as soon as I reach them. “Oh, Emma. I’m so proud of you.” She’s crying too.
“Grandma... what?” My mouth hangs open, and I cannot form any more words.
“We’re here for the fiftieth race,” Ryan says.
I look over at Grandma. “Oh, I know all about it, sweetheart,” she says. “It’s just so special.” She tears up and grabs me for another hug.
Ryan motions for us to move over to the grassy area. We find a spot in some shade and Ryan sets up a portable chair for Grandma. I sit on the ground next to Ryan, and Grandma explains how Ryan came over to the house this morning to tell her everything and bring her here to the race. I ask about Cherise.
The Brilliance of Fireflies Page 18