Thirty Days: Part Three (A SwipeDate Novella)

by BT Urruela

  She goes for the alarm clock next, but Jackie puts one hand on top of it and the other gently pulls Grandma’s hand away. “Gracie, please,” Jackie says, letting her arm go and setting a hand to her shoulder. “Please, baby, you come on back to us.”

  Grandma trembles, her frightened eyes on me as Jackie pulls a syringe from her front pocket. She connects it to Grandma’s IV and empties its contents.

  “Wh—what was that?” I ask, motioning to the empty syringe as Jackie pockets it.

  “Just a little something to help her relax.”

  “Is it good to keep her sedated like that?”

  “We aren’t giving her much, Gavin. Just enough to keep her from hurting herself or others. The best thing we can do is make her as comfortable as possible. When she gets like that, emotional and angry, there’s no bringing her back.”

  I hang my head in resignation, knowing what I’m being told is the truth, but hating it all the same. “How much time?” I ask, without lifting my head. Fighting back the knot in my throat with everything I’ve got.

  “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I just don’t know, but I think it’s always best to prepare for the worst. This—this is different. The doctors are worried. Just spend time with her. Give her some love.”

  “What if I took her to the park one day soon?” I ask, panic heavy in my tone. “You know how much she loves it there. Maybe it could get her back on the right track.”

  She shakes her head slowly, solemnly, as her eyes drop to the floor.

  “We just can’t let you take her outta here. Not when she’s like this. I’ll talk to the doctors right when I can to see if we can work something out, but her health and safety is our number one priority right now, and with the way she’s been the past few days, they just don’t think it’s best for you, or for her.”

  “Well, ain’t that some shit,” I say, raising my voice more than intended, and it draws her eyes back to mine. She scrunches her brows, her hands meeting her hips, as I continue, “It’s my grandma. I shouldn’t need permission.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am, baby, but there’s nothing I can do right now. Just spend time with her, okay. She knows you’re here.” She turns and heads for the door before looking back to me and smiling weakly. She then steps out into the hall and closes the door to a crack behind her.

  I look down at Grandma, who rests peacefully now in the silent room, only the hum of her ceiling fan and the monotonous beep of her heart monitor creating an ambience around us. Placing my hand on top of hers, I lean down and kiss her on her forehead. A tear escapes and runs down my cheek as I straighten back up. The thoughts of my grandma back when she was still herself flash through my brain.

  It wasn’t that long ago. Not when I really think about it. After Grandpa passed, Grandma started to show signs of the disease that would someday take her—the her I once knew—away from the world. But she still had that light in her eyes. She still looked upon me with a beaming pride no one else ever did.

  She’d sit in her rocker, knitting her quilts, as I read to her. She loved the classics of course, but she loved exploring the new stuff, too. She grew to love Stephen King almost as much as I do; the softer stuff, of course. The Green Mile was her favorite. She cried and cried when John Coffey sat in the electric chair, weeping, as he awaited his demise, and cried harder when the lever was pulled.

  I’d read her my first book, too, though it took quite the argument from her to get me to do so. The whole time writing that first draft, all I could think was how I was going to fuck it up somehow.

  But she loved it. And it too left her in tears, almost as abundant as poor old JC had. And I cried right along with her. I couldn’t help it. She truly loved it.

  I can still feel the thump of my heartbeat as she told me just how proud of me she was. That my book was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever experienced, the tears welling in my eyes.

  What does one even say to that? I thanked her for living a life worth writing about. For sharing her and Grandpa’s love with me even after he passed, when I knew it pained her to do so. I thanked her for being her, for loving me unconditionally, for protecting me as best she could from the cold outside world. Without her, I told her, I wouldn’t have ever had the guts to write that book, or any book thereafter.

  She was as responsible for the words as I was.

  She’s always been so humble, though, always redirecting credit to someone or something else. It was my destiny, she’d say, to share my words with others.

  I miss those times. And I feel guilty for thinking back on it so much, missing it as I do, with her still right here in front of me. Still breathing. Still fighting.

  I kiss her forehead again, and this time, her eyes open to tiny slits. She sees me, but she stares right through me; a hollow, empty gaze. She grunts and moans, as if trying to say something, saliva bubbling at her lips.

  “I love you, Grandma,” I whisper as the tears fall freely down my face now. I give her hand a good squeeze, wiping my face dry with the back of my other hand. “I love you so, so much.”

  It’s a heavy burden to watch the one you love, the only true family you have left, fade away slowly into oblivion. I am very aware that my time with her is fleeting, and I can only hope, my only wish in this world, is to have her back with me once more—grandmother to grandson.

  I spent hours with her, reading, before finally heading home, well after nightfall. During the walk home, all I can think about is what if her mind comes back when I’m not there. Worse yet, what if she dies when I’m not around. That thought alone rips a hole right through my chest. Scaling my brownstone front stairs, I decide that if I can’t bring Grandma to what she loves, I’ll bring what she loves to her.

  The call to Jackie this morning went exactly as expected. Brookdale is the best of the best in New York City for a reason—many reasons, in fact—and genuine concern for their patients’ well-being is one of them. I don’t blame them for not letting me take her out of that place, but I do hate them a little for it.

  The rest of my morning I’ve spent Ubering to a U-Haul facility, buying boxes, and renting a truck. The thing barely fits on the street and one side is tilted up onto the curb, begging a police officer or parking attendant to come by with questions or, more likely, a fine. But I don’t give two shits. The thought of my grandmother dying in her bed alone fuels me, like a hungry wolf on the heels of a jackrabbit. I put book after book from her old collection into boxes and hump them out to the truck as each one is filled.

  About five boxes in, I hear a faint knock at the door behind me, my body hunkered over a partially-filled box. I glance over, spotting Bobby opening the door and leaning his head in. I half smile at him, and then turn back to the bookshelves.

  “What’s going on, man? I texted you a few times last night.” He pauses and lets out a sigh as he makes his way inside, shutting the door behind him. “Spoke with Javon.”

  I continue pulling books off the shelf as I speak with my back toward him. “Yeah, saw your text. Sorry. I’ve just been busy.”

  “I see that. You got a ticket on the truck, by the way.”

  “Eh, fuck them. They can give me a hundred tickets if they want. I’m not moving it until I’m finished.”

  “Finished with what, exactly?” he asks, as I hear him inch closer over the hardwood floor. “Mind telling me what’s going on? Those are your grandma’s books, no?”

  Immediately, he lets out a small gasp.

  “Oh fuck, Gavin, tell me she’s not—”

  “No… not yet,” I say, coldly. “But she’s on her way.”

  “Shit, man, I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug, my hands meeting my waist as I rest for a moment. I scan the remaining books on her side of the shelf, each one with a different childhood memory of mine attached to it. Taking a deep breath in, I close my eyes tightly, releasing a heavy sigh. I feel his hand clamp down on my shoulder and he gives it a squeeze.

  “What can you
do?” I respond without looking at him, my focus still on the shelves.

  “Well, what are you doing, Gavin? You’ve yet to tell me.”

  As I set a handful of books into the box, I reply, “The fuckers won’t let me take her out on a pass. They say it’s not safe. So, I’m bringing her library to her. Going to bring the record player and vinyls Sami…” I clear my throat. “Um, Sami got her, too.”

  As her name hits my lips, a hollowness take over my insides, my chest tight and mind racing. I’ve fought the urge to think of her since Jackie called, and to this point, it’s worked pretty well. Now, her face is again bombarding m`y brain.

  “Speaking of, has she called you back yet?”

  “What do you think?” I ask dryly, shooting him a less than enthused look.

  “Give it time. Just give it time.”

  I turn fully toward him now, my hands returning to my waist.

  “Really now, Bobby? Last time we talked, you were telling me to dive right in. ‘Call her,’ you said. ‘Just tell her the truth,’ you said. Well, I did both, and nothing. No call back. Not a single damn text. Just dead air.”

  “I don’t have some secret formula,” he says, maintaining his patience, though his eyes are reading anything but that. “I don’t have all the damn answers either. What I do have is support, and advice for a friend I consider family. You can take it, or you can leave it, but just don’t get pissed at me when you don’t get the outcome you want.”

  “I’m not pissed.”

  “Annoyed then,” he shoots back instantly, nearly cutting me off. He directs a pointer at my face. “Whatever the hell that look is.” He chuckles, lowering his hand. “Hey, maybe she’s not the one. Maybe she’s a good life lesson. A speed bump. Or maybe she just needs time.”

  “Nah, there’s no way. Not after what I did the other night.”

  “Oh, God. The same night you called Javon?”

  I nod.

  “What did you do, Gavin?” he asks, warily.

  “Just blew up her phone. Thank God I didn’t call her, like I did Javon, but what I did do was pretty much just as bad. A bunch of drunk gibberish, a shitload of sorrys, only some of them spelled incorrectly, and…” My voice trails as embarrassment washes over me. “…And an ‘I love you’ to top it all off.”

  His eyes go wide and he brings a palm to his open mouth.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Yep. Not even just the letter u, or a ya, but a full on ‘I love you.’ Like I’m some fucking psycho.”

  “Well, she obviously knows you were drunk with all the butt-texts. That has to help your case a little.”

  I pinch my lips together and shrug as I turn back toward the bookshelves. I begin up the steps to get the books on the top shelf, now that Bobby’s here to help.

  Looking back down at him, I say, “Honestly, I don’t care right now. I can’t care. My grandma is my only concern at the moment. If she’s on her way out, I’m going to be there with her. I’m going to make sure she’s not doing this alone.”

  “You could’ve just called me for help, you know. I would’ve let you use my SUV.”

  I glance back, a slight smile on my face, and ask, “Bobby, do you have any idea how many books she has in her collection?”

  His eyes go wide and he rears his head back like I’m crazy.

  “You’re bringing all of them?”

  I nod my head and go back to work, pulling the aged books from the dusty shelves and handing them over to him. He doesn’t take them at first, but cocks his head, disbelief written on his face.

  With my arm muscles screaming, veins just about bursting from the skin, I quip, “Well, you gonna help me or just stand there looking at me like I’m stupid?”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence in Grandma’s room as I unload the first of about thirty boxes. It forces me to turn back and check on her routinely, though the steady beat of the heart monitor lets me know she’s okay, but I just can’t help myself. The fear of losing her fills me completely. Bobby left right after helping me unload, dropping the truck off for me before he went back to living the life of a successful author.

  He never did mention the contest or whether I was still doing it, and I didn’t bother bringing it up either. I’m sure he’s already made the assumption that it’s taken a backseat due to my grandma’s condition, but I don’t know what that means about the contest itself… or the twenty-five thousand. I don’t even really want to think about it. Truth is, I need that money more than I would or could ever let on to him. I should’ve picked up a side gig months ago.

  That doesn’t matter right now, though. Grandma does. Nothing else.

  Sitting cross-legged in the middle of a cardboard Stonehenge I’ve surrounded myself with, I’ve managed to empty one of the boxes, piling the books on her dresser in neat stacks before Jackie raps the door rhythmically with her knuckles. I don’t respond right away, my focus still on the box in front of me, but I can already imagine the face she’s giving me. It’s the face she always gives me—that motherly look with the head slightly tilted, an eyebrow raised, and both hands on her hips.

  “So, I heard from the charge nurse you were moving up in here. I figured you’d bring more than just books.”

  I turn back with a smile and find Jackie’s exactly how I pictured her in my head. She taps a foot against the tiled floor for a moment, analyzing me and then the boxes before she takes a few steps into the room, resting her butt up against the end of Grandma’s bed.

  She glances back at Grandma, placing a hand on her blanketed foot as she says, “You know the doctors aren’t gonna be happy about this. Not one bit.”

  “Are you telling me to take them out of here?”

  She shoots her head around and narrows her eyes on me.

  “C’mon now, baby. You know me better than that. I’ll keep them at bay. Just make sure you keep all these books out of the way, so the doctors can come in here and work.”

  “Did you happen to press the issue with them about me taking her out of here? All this would be unnecessary if they’d just let me.”

  She shakes her head slowly from side to side, compassion on her face.

  “No, they still aren’t comfortable with it. They want her to stabilize a bit first. They don’t think it’s safe for her to be out there.”

  “Is it safe for her to be in here?”

  She shrugs. “Safer.”

  “I get that. But what I don’t get is if she’s on her way out anyway, why does it matter?”

  “It’s just protocol, Gavin. If something does happen, they at least want to have the ability to help her.”

  “Jackie—” My voice cracks, and a tightness in my throat indicating oncoming tears forces my eyes to the floor in front of me. “I just, I don’t want to lose her before…before I get a chance to be with her again.”

  “You are with her,” she says.

  “You know what I mean.” I swallow thickly, breathing through the tightness until the constriction eases, and I look back at her. “I want to be ‘Gavin, the grandson’ to her again. Not ‘Gavin, the volunteer’.”

  “I know. I know.” She puts her hands together and looks toward the ceiling briefly. “And God knows I wish more than anything that you get that. But if you don’t, you gotta think about one thing. Gavin, look at me.”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d looked away, my eyes fixated on the tiny intricate pattern on the tiled floor, my mind running through a life without Grandma. As she asks, I look back toward her and she puts a hand to her chest. Her nostrils flare and she bites her bottom lip as if she’s keeping herself from getting too emotional.

  “You gotta think about this. Every single day you’ve been here, you’ve brought a light back into your grandma. I see it. Every. Single. Time. And you can’t tell me that’s from getting Gone with the Wind read to her for the thousandth time. It’s not. Maybe she’s not here with us in the sense we’re accustomed to, but I do believe, deep down, she knows
you’re here. That you’ve been here for years. And one day, when her time comes, and many, many, many more years down the road, when your number’s called too, I believe with all my heart that you two will be reunited. And she’ll tell you all about the days you made her feel alive again. You gotta believe it, too.”

  I don’t say anything back right away, because her words hit me to my core. I feel the tears fighting to break through, and choke them back.

  “You know I don’t believe much in that whole ‘father in the sky’ stuff, Jackie,” I mutter, taking a big gulp.

  “Ohhh, that’s okay, baby,” she says, lifting herself from the bed with a squeak of the mattress springs. She walks over toward me and places a hand on my shoulder, pointing toward the ceiling with her other hand. She follows her finger with her eyes and then they fall back down on me. “He believes in you. He always has and He always will. No matter what.”

  She makes her way to the door, but before exiting, she turns back toward me.

  “And I believe in you, Gavin. Always have, always will. No matter what.”

  With a quick wink, she turns on her heel and heads out the door just as the tears begin streaming down my face.

  The change in smell is the first thing I notice once the books are stacked high as can be, lining her dresser and the wall space around it, a mountain of flattened out boxes by the doorway, waiting to be discarded. The sterile antiseptic smell of the room before has given way to a flurry of aged leather and paper, reminiscent of the New York Public Library antiquated books section. On most of them, the hapless binding is close to giving way, but that just makes me love them that much more. Only true bibliophiles can appreciate the slow degradation of a book, the wear shown from years of love.

  I wipe the last of my tears away, standing in the center of the room, looking from the stacks of books to Grandma’s still body. I pay close attention to her steady breathing, and the adorable little snore she lets out here and there; a reminder that some things haven’t changed.