Jess and the Runaway Grandpa

by Mary Woodbury

  “Great socks,” her teacher said as she passed.

  Brian was drinking at the water fountain. He shook his black mop in her direction. Had he been waiting for her?

  “I miss Ernie, too, you know.” His face had a puzzled frown. “Are you mad at me or something? We used to be friends.”

  “Ernie’s not dead, he’s just losing his memory, Brian.”

  “He’s got Alzheimer’s disease, Jess. He’ll never get better.”

  “Mind your own business!” Jess shouted, his words ringing in her ears. She took a deep breath. “We’ll take care of him, Brian. Don’t get in a pickle. Don’t get your relish in a jar.” She clamped her mouth shut. She sounded stupid….like stupid Brian Dille, the clown, the boy who liked teasing girls, especially her. She walked past him down the hall to their classroom.

  If only she could talk to Grandpa Ernie like she used to. He’d always had time to listen to her, more time than her mom even. A wide river of loneliness swept through her mind. It was one of her recurring nightmares, dreaming of trying to swim in a fast current, sinking into breathless depths, struggling to find the surface, and waking exhausted, covered with sweat. A dark dream with storm clouds, lightning, rushing water, and clawing cold.

  Jess longed for things to go back to the way they were before – back to when she and Ernie and Brian fished and played rummy and silly Wild West Games and War and talked about school stuff. Jess sighed, hitched her sports bag higher, and marched away, her right shoulder complaining from the weight. “The old Ernie’s gone, Jess.” Brian called after her. “Let him go.”

  Chapter 3 – Ernie in the Morning

  Ernie Mather watched as the girl got on the bus. She wasn’t dressed for school, wearing old blue jeans and sloppy orange socks – so where was she going? He should go with her and keep her safe. Keep her safe.

  “Come on in, Ernie,” the woman in the red track suit said. She unlocked the front door and held it open for him. “There’s a chill in the air. I suspect we’re going to have snow. Usually have a last gasp of winter close to the twenty-fourth of May holiday. First good camping weekend of the year; and the old prairie weather kicks up a snowstorm. Remember when we were snowed in out in Landis and you had to call and tell them to get a substitute teacher? That was before you became principal, when you were teaching grade five and six.”

  She knew more about his life than he did, this woman. Why did she keep telling him all these little details about his past? Were they important? For her, or for him?

  He must have known her a long time. Her name was Ruth, a good Biblical name. Ruth in the Bible had said, “Wherever you go, I will go.” Ernie was going someplace where nobody could follow. He did not want to disappoint this old friend, though, so he followed her inside.

  He went to the stove and put the kettle on and walked away.

  “Turn on the burner, Ernie, there’s a good guy.” Ruth watched him from the kitchen chair where she was putting on her pink knitted slippers. Ernie made his way back across the kitchen. Ruth came and stood too close behind as he turned on the burner. Her slippers made no noise, but he could feel her breath on his neck. He shuddered.

  He walked over and checked the locks on the back door. He pulled back the curtains to let the sun shine over the sink, glisten on the taps. It must be morning. Not time for bed. But he felt tired. Too tired for words.

  Ruth was busy getting out the teacups and saucers, a comfortable clinking of china on china. So Ernie sat on one of the maple kitchen chairs, let his hand slide over the polished wooden surface. It was silky smooth and honey colored, and solid as a rock. Ernie liked solid things. So much of his life these days was dreams and dizziness.

  “We’re going visiting today, Ernie. To a sunny place with flowers. You can make new friends.” Ruth beamed at him. “You’re in for a great treat.”

  “Don’t want to go. Don’t like treats.”

  “We’ve always liked going places, Ernie.”

  “What?”

  Ruth repeated what she had said, louder.

  “Don’t shout. I’m not deaf, you know,” he growled.

  Ruth slapped the teacup down in front of Ernie so hard the tea spilled onto the saucer. He looked up at her frowning, picked up his hankie and mopped the saucer.

  “Oh, Ernie,” Ruth said with a sigh. “You aren’t easy to get along with these days.”

  “Was I before?”

  “Yes.” She sat down with her tea and stirred it silently. “Everyone said you were a good principal, tough but fair. We always liked going places, meeting new people, and seeing new things. When we were young and I was on nights in emergency at the hospital, I’d pick you up after work and we’d drive to the country or to Lake Wabamum and picnic.” Ruth sighed again. “Even in winter. We’d cross-country ski, or fish.”

  “I like fishing. I remember that.” Ernie felt a moment’s pleasure. A memory of poles and bait and leaping fish bubbled up, and he grasped it like a life raft. “I fished up north, didn’t I?” He rubbed his chin in an excited way, willing the memory to expand. Instead, it disappeared, and he was left feeling his bristly beard.

  “I wish you’d remind me to shave in the mornings,” he said gruffly.

  Ernie wandered down the hall towards the bathroom, trailing his fingers along the wall, feeling each bump on the wallpaper, repeating over and over to himself. “I’m going to shave. I’m going to shave.” Panic grew as he entered the bright little room with the maroon fuzzy mat, the maroon toilet seat cover, the maroon drinking glass. His hand caressed the seat cover as he put it down. He was a gentleman and gentleman always put the seat down after using the toilet. His mother had taught him that. Ernie remembered the tiny little woman with brown hair rolled in a bun, the hairpins falling out as she worked. A crowded house full of hairpins. He had been a good boy and where had it all gone? He rubbed his hands on the maroon toweling, the nubby bumps touching the palms of his hands. He grinned as he shambled back down the hall in his old brown leather slippers.

  The woman was sitting at the table nursing her cup of tea. She did not see him right away, because her eyes were looking inward and whatever she saw in there was very sad. Her mouth trembled.

  A floorboard creaked under his left foot and the woman glanced up. The expression on her face changed so fast that Ernie could not remember what he had seen before. She smiled like his mother, but her eyes were slow to pick up the grin. She seemed far away.

  “You didn’t shave, Ernie. You went to shave.” Her voice rasped like a nail.

  “Why are you angry? What have I done? You never tell me anything.” He tried the back door, wanting to escape. “Am I a prisoner here?” he shouted.

  Ernie sat down again at the maple table with the carved legs, the patterned tablecloth, and the bowl of plastic fruit. He put his head between his hands, felt the pressure of those hands on his temples and his ears, felt unwanted tears gather. It was not this woman’s fault. He hated it when he lost his temper. A gentleman doesn’t lose his temper, doesn’t blame others, doesn’t cry over his troubles. Ernie couldn’t remember when he had been a gentleman last. He was afraid he would never be one again.

  After a few moments Ruth wrapped her arms around him. She handed him a giant white hankie and he blew his nose.

  “Why don’t you go and have a nap, Ernie,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t upset you by talking about trips, talking about going visiting. We won’t go if you don’t want to, Ernie.”

  She took his hand in hers – and the touch of her strong fingers sent a current of warmth all the way to Ernie’s insides. “We should marry, Ruth.”

  “We are married, Ernie, we’ve been married for fifty-one years. We had a big party last year in the backyard with all our friends.”

  “Of course we did. I remember that.” Ernie wished he did remember, wished he didn’t have to lie, but he wanted this secret to remain hidden as long as possible. He had records kept somewhere to help him, but where? Some days were pretty go
od. This one wasn’t, was it?

  They walked down the hall to the bedroom together. The light peach walls, the peach comforter, lampshades, drapes, and nubby carpet beneath his feet welcomed him. He felt as if he had been up too long – for a year or two. Ruth helped him take off his robe and get under the covers. The bed was safe and solid. The dizziness subsided. He would sleep, and maybe when he woke the fog would have lifted. Stray tears ran from the corners of his eyes.

  “Who are we going to visit?” he asked. His voice sounded like an old man’s, his pale parchment hands on the comforter were old man’s hands. Had he mislaid his life, his memories? Or had they been stolen? If he had truly lost all those years, what would he do? Human beings were designed to remember and reflect. Consciousness was the greatest gift. Better than hairpins. Why was he thinking about hairpins? That was a silly thing to think about. Ernie closed his eyes and prayed, repeating the few phrases he could still remember. Like the rug, the towel, the comforter, the prayer felt solid and soothing.

  He slept curled on his side, his left arm wrapped around his body, his left hand grasping his right shoulder, hugging his bones like a lonely child in a cold and strange world.

  Chapter 4 – Ernie Makes Plans

  When Ernie woke he felt better. The fog had cleared and he knew what he had to do. This illness of his was as hard on those he loved as it was on him. He would have to take things into his own hands. But first he had to talk to God.

  He got up quickly, pulled on khaki pants and a tan turtleneck, and grabbed his spring jacket and cap from the closet. He opened the bedroom door cautiously. His wife was talking on the phone.

  “Yes, he’s sleeping like a baby. He had a really bad spell this morning. Called for David and Yvonne as if they were still kids out playing somewhere. Thought he was still teaching school. Locked us out of the house. Panicked when I mentioned the trip. I didn’t even get around to telling him it was to visit the day program for Alzheimer patients. But we don’t talk about that, do we?”

  There was a pause as the person on the other end of the line spoke.

  “I know you don’t agree with me. You’re a different generation. As far as I’m concerned, you tell too much. How’s telling him he’s got a terminal disease going to help? What he doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt him, Naomi.”

  Ernie slipped into the bathroom and ran a razor over his stubble. He wished Ruth would remind him to shave. He couldn’t afford to let little things slip. Before long his whole life would be a shambles. But he and Ruth didn’t talk about it. He hated the dishonesty, the pretending. He wanted company facing this. His heart squeezed in his chest as if a giant had a hold of it. Ruth’s voice drifted into the room.

  “I hear him in the bathroom, Naomi. I’ll call you later after the visit – if he’ll go, that is. He can be so stubborn.”

  Ernie walked into the kitchen, where shafts of sunlight held dancing motes of dust. He took Ruth in his arms and kissed her, watched the worry in her eyes begin to fade.

  “I must have slept the morning away. What’s for lunch?”

  “Lentil soup.”

  “Thought I’d walk down to the church and back to clear my head.”

  “You won’t be long?”

  “I’m all right, Ruth. I just want to stretch my legs… and my spirit.” He rummaged in the telephone table for his prayer book and New Testament, tucked them into his jacket pocket with the neatly folded hankie and the house keys. He bent and kissed his wife on the forehead. Ruth’s eyes were still troubled. He wished he could tell her it would soon be all over. She had been a wonderful companion and wife. Her hair and bushy eyebrows were still dark, but her competent nurse’s hands betrayed her age with freckles, dark veins, and thinner skin. She smelled of Ivory soap and lilac-scented shampoo. Getting older hadn’t been hard on her. She was still a smart, vital person. One of the lucky ones.

  “Do you need gloves?”

  “For Pete’s sake, I’m not a baby yet.”

  “I could come with you.”

  “You don’t like church.”

  Ernie walked the three blocks to the small Anglican church. He let himself in the newly painted oak door, allowing his hand to rest on the cool hammered-iron door handle.

  He slid into a dark mahogany pew halfway down the centre aisle. He let the warmth of the wood, the smoothness of the crimson-cushioned kneeling bench, the peaceful altar, cross, and banners, and the mellow tones from the pipe organ soothe his mind and heart. He prayed the prayers of the day, read the Gospel lesson, and sat in the stillness listening to the organist rehearse the hymns for Sunday. The long weekend was coming soon. He and those nice kids had always fished in a northern lake on the long weekends.

  This illness was more than he could bear. If it was his body breaking down, he could take it more easily, but not his mind. He loved to think, to plan, to remember. Life was a gift, but did he have a life if he couldn’t reflect on his life journey? Every day he felt less in touch. He couldn’t stand not having control over things, not being able to remember anything or anybody. He couldn’t stand seeing Ruth worried, the neighbours too – Naomi and little Jess. He shook his head. He wished God would answer his prayers, make his decisions, but God kept handing the decisions back. That’s what God was like.

  He sighed and thought of his favourite Hebrew Scripture – it had his middle name in it, maybe that’s why he liked it so much. He would have it inscribed on his gravestone – he should write it down while he was lucid. But even as he thought of writing something down, Ernie felt the slow thrum of the blood in his head like a muffled roar of rapids in a rushing river.

  He would hurry home while he still remembered the way; he’d forgotten his map. He would trust Ruth and God to keep him safe until the next time that his mind was clear enough so he could think and plan. If he had the courage he would take things into his own hands. He would walk away from it all.

  Ernie Enoch Mather wrote in the front of his prayer book in shaky ball point pen –

  “And Enoch walked with God and was not, for God took him.”

  Chapter 5 – Water Bombs

  Jess straightened the row of clay models along the window ledge of the art room on the Wednesday before the May long weekend. Mom was picking her up after work, so Jess was helping the art teacher until she came.

  Brian’s South American peasant figure sleeping with his head resting on his knees was still damp. It was really well done. Brian was good at art, better than anyone else in the class, she had to admit that. Ernie had kept drawing pencils and markers for both of them. She had preferred the blocks, the Lego, the construction sets. Not art.

  Tomorrow they would paint the pottery and take it home. Her mother would put Jess’s Mexican sombrero on the shelf with all the other class projects she had brought home. If Mom ever married someone else and they bought a new house, would they take all Jess’s treasures with them? She didn’t like the thought of moving, much less losing track of her things. “Don’t borrow tomorrow’s worries,” Grandpa Ernie would say. “Today has enough of its own.” Jess figured that must be in the Bible somewhere. Ernie always quoted Scripture, especially from the New Testament.

  She stacked a haphazard pile of first graders’ pet pictures made of bits of coloured wool, felt, and glue. One of the kids had made an orange cat out of wool the colour of Jess’s socks. Good old Midas. Jess blinked back tears and stared out the window. A magpie scolded a squirrel on the school lawn. Maybe it was her fault that Midas was dead. Maybe they should have kept him in, or put him on a long leash like Miss Mason who kept two white Persians on long thin red ropes in the laneway, and everyone in the neighbourhood knew enough to untangle them when they walked by. If Jess got another cat, maybe she would keep it on a line.

  She had wiped the counter by the window with the damp dust rag three times while she’d been thinking. She opened one of the windows and shook the rag, watching the dust rise. She could see the Seniors Centre across the ravine from her school. It had con
dominiums, a nursing home and extended care facility, and a drop-in centre. They were building a new wing for Alzheimer patients. For Ernie, maybe. She sighed.

  Between the school and the Seniors Centre, was a wide ravine with Whitemud Drive running at the bottom of it. There were jogging trails along the lip and a skinny wooden bridge for bicycles and walkers.

  A short thin old man came walking across the bridge. He was striding like an old soldier on parade. He carried a full pitcher and a stack of white paper cups. His white hair blew in the breeze. Was he going on a picnic? Meeting friends? The jug was slopping over because he was walking so fast. Something about the jaunty way he moved made Jess lean forward and peer through the window. It was Grandpa Ernie.

  He stopped in the middle of the footbridge and put the pitcher on the railing and leaned over. He took off his tan golf jacket and folded it, laid it on the wooden slats that made the bridge deck. What was he doing?

  Jess flew out the door. Her footsteps echoed in the empty school corridor. She dodged one forgotten Mickey Mouse sneaker outside the kindergarten door. The front door banged behind her as she spurted down the walk, pausing briefly to check for traffic. The air was heavy with the smell of exhaust fumes from the cars in the ravine. She brushed by a brilliant yellow forsythia bush, an early purple lilac, and a prickly wild rosebush. A muscle car headed down the ramp to the throughway, music blaring from both speakers.

  Ernie was stepping up onto the bottom railing of the bridge. He was leaning out. He had a paper cup in his hand.

  “Ernie! Don’t do it!” Jess screamed as she raced along the bridge, her sneakers banging the planks. She grabbed him by the waist and hauled him off the railing. The two of them engaged in a funny dance as Ernie tried to break away. His eyes were startled as a deer’s. Jess clenched her jaw as she wrestled with him. He pushed her away with all his might. Neither of them spoke. He ran from her, back towards the Seniors Centre, stopped and hurled the paper cup with all his force over the edge so that it sailed through the air and down into the ravine beneath their feet, where the cars raced by at eighty kilometers an hour.