by BT Urruela
But I’m also in bed, tossing and turning in my sweat-soaked sheets. Periodically, I bat at the alarm clock to turn it off, but with no such luck. It won’t stop, and I won’t wake, and in my heart of hearts, I know my grandmother’s dying, the life is being drained from her, and I’m stuck in bed, clueless, helpless. She cries out for me, begging me to not let her die alone, but I don’t wake.
I never wake.
Shooting up from the pillows, I fight to catch my breath. I rub my hands through my hair and find that I’m coated in sweat, almost as if I jumped out of the shower and hopped into bed without drying off. I try and steady my ragged breathing and collect my thoughts enough to remember the dream, to remember Grandma dying alone, me not being there with her.
Grabbing for my phone, I quickly type in my passcode and see a few text messages, but thankfully, no call from Jackie or anyone else from Brookdale. I smack the alarm clock quiet as I scroll through my texts.
There’s one from Bobby asking me to come to trivia tomorrow, a text from Maria asking what she did wrong (mind you, I haven’t texted back in ages), and one from Joanne. I can’t help but laugh.
Joanne: It’s fine. You can say what you want about me. I know you still think of me. And you miss me. When you realize it again, too, hopefully I’ll still be here waiting.
I chuck the phone to the nightstand, fighting the urge to tell her to eat a dick, or that maybe a part of me does still love her, or that I’d kill her if it were legal.
Who knows how the fuck I feel? I sure the hell don’t anymore.
What I do know is there’s no text from Sami, and there probably never will be. And as much as I try and convince myself it doesn’t bother me, I know it’s just a lie. In the short amount of time I got to know her, she completely overwhelmed me. She possessed me in a way no other woman ever has; like somehow, for longer than I’ve known her, she’s been a part of me, and I’ve just been looking in all the wrong corners for her.
“How’s she doing today?” I ask as I approach Jackie at the nurse’s station. It looks like I almost beat her here, as she’s still removing her jacket and stowing her bag beneath the desk. She smiles at me over her shoulder as she stands back straight.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” she says, still smiling. “I haven’t gotten to check on her just yet—or any of the residents, for that matter—but we had no issues with anyone all night, so don’t you worry. Let’s go say hi, though, huh?”
I nod my head mindlessly, without words to accompany it. My brain is still in a fog from my half-assed sleep.
“You look tired, boy. I didn’t even think you knew what eight in the morning looked like,” she caws as we walk toward the room and it ricochets off the barren white walls.
I grin, shrugging as we reach the door. “Hell, before today I didn’t. It’s an ugly sight,” I joke.
“Naw, mornings are beautiful. You just gotta be awake enough to appreciate them.” She looks into the room at the same time as I do, and we both spot Grandma lying in bed, awake, but staring off toward the stacks of books against the far wall. A doctor checks her vitals, logging something into her chart before turning and walking toward the doorway. He glances toward the stacked books before shooting an annoyed look in my direction. His brows pinch together and there’s a smug tightness to his lips as he drops the chart into the plastic holder attached to the door. He gives a quick shake of his head.
“I’m not a fan of that. Not at all,” he says, pointing back toward the books. “Jackie explained to me the significance of the books, and that’s the only reason I’m not raising a stink about this, but I’d appreciate cutting it down to something smaller than the Congressional Library, huh?” he asks, though it’s not a question as much as it’s a demand, and he walks off without an answer.
I look toward Jackie and she’s fighting back a laugh.
“That dude’s a dick,” I say, and she finally does burst out in laughter.
“He has his moments. I haven’t known many doctors to be anything but that…but I handled him. Don’t you worry. You just spend time with your grandma. That’s all you need to worry your little head over. Let me worry about these docs. They’re like putty in my hands when I turn on that Jackie charm.”
“Is it Jackie charm or Jackie sass?” I ask with a wink.
She shrugs, a prideful look on her face.
“Maybe a little of both.” She laughs, moving toward the monitors and checking them for a moment before she squeezes past me through the doorway. “Let me know if you need anything, huh?”
“I brought her record player and some vinyls yesterday, along with the books. Would it be okay if I played it? On low, that is.”
“Yes, of course,” she responds. “As long as I can’t hear it in the hall, you’re just fine. And heck, some of these other residents could use a little music in their lives if it does happen to sneak out. I’ll be in to check on you all in a little bit, mkay?” I nod and she smiles, waiting for me to enter the room before she shuts the door behind her.
“Hi, Gracie. How are you feeling today?”
She doesn’t move, her pale, watery eyes locked onto the books, her frail hands fidgeting in her lap. If she’s had any drugs, it hasn’t been for a while. She looks more lucid than she has the past few days.
“You feeling okay, doll?” I repeat, moving to her bedside.
Her head slowly rolls to the side and she takes me in, peering at me in the most peculiar way.
“Where did all these books come from?” she asks, her voice gravely and raw.
“They’re your books, Grace. They’re all yours.”
She tilts her head back, toward the stacked books on her dresser, and then turns further to scan the ones on her nightstand.
“Mine?” she asks, still looking away from me.
“Yes, ma’am. You’ve been collecting them your whole life.”
“I—I don’t remember them.”
“There’s a whole lot of them to remember. I can hardly remember what I ate for breakfast, so it’s no surprise to me they don’t look familiar.” I grab one of the books from the nightstand closest to me, Jane Eyre, as she faces me again. “This one was one of your first ones. It was a gift from someone very special a long time ago.”
“Momma?”
“No, not this one; though, she’s the reason for about half of these.”
“Who, then?”
“Your husband, Gracie. His name was John. He was a fighter pilot and then a police officer.” She looks confused, and though normal protocol would mean talking as little about her past as possible to avoid confusion, I can’t help myself. I’m desperate to jumpstart her memory. Whether she remembers me or not, if she can remember something from her past—something meaningful—before she goes, I can breathe a little easier.
“No, no. I’m not married. Mother would be very mad at me if I were. She tells me all the time I’m too young.”
“Oh Grace, try and remember him. Just try. He was a dashing young man when you met. You used to say he had Clark Gable looks.”
“Only Clark Gable has Clark Gable looks,” she corrects me, a bit of sass to her tone, which brings a smile to my face.
“Well, that’s true, but John certainly gave him a run for his money. I don’t think even Clark himself could’ve stolen you from him. You loved him very much.”
She gives a quick, defiant shake of her head.
“You have me mistaken. Now stop going on about it.” She purses her lips and crosses her arms.
“You guys married right here in New York City, at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. You honeymooned in Hawaii. You hadn’t known about it until the wedding night, when he surprised you with the tickets. He saved up for a long time to buy them. Do you remember?”
She doesn’t respond, her lips still closed tightly together, a slight look of impatience passing over her features.
“He used to read to you every night before bed,” I continue. “It was your favorite thing, more tha
n anything, because you knew how much he hated reading aloud. But he did it, without complaint, because he knew how much it meant to you.”
“Stop it!” she yells, her voice cracking with the words. “You’re lying.”
“I’m sorry, Grace. I’ll stop.”
“Who are you to come in here and make stuff up? Who are you? You better leave soon, because if Momma comes in here and hears you telling lies, she’ll whoop your butt and then mine. Now you go and you stop with your tall tales.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I repeat in a gentle tone, but I can tell the damage is done.
“They’re lies! And lies get whoopings. And I don’t want no whooping. Not for you. Not for anybody. Oh, and if Papa finds out… well then, we’re in real big trouble. I don’t want to be in trouble. Papa doesn’t like liars and neither do I. You’ll get me a whooping, right along with you, and I don’t want it.” As she speaks, the volume of her voice ebbs and flows. Her face turns a rosy hue and I can see her breathing has picked up by the drastic rise and fall of her chest.
“Grace, how about we read a story.”
“Now, I told you already you best be going. You aren’t gonna like Papa when he’s angry, okay? Don’t go getting me in trouble.”
“No trouble here at all. I promise. I’ll read really quiet so no one can hear but us.”
“He hears everything,” she says, her eyes like saucers, her bottom lip trembling. “He hears everything. And if he hears you, and sees a boy in my room, ohhhh no. Then we’re both in trouble. I don’t want no trouble, so you best be on your way.”
“What if I go check with him real quick, and see if I can read you a story? I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“No!” she yells, her hands meeting her cheeks. “No! No! No! Don’t let him know you were here. Please.”
The opening door behind me draws my attention and I see Jackie bob her head in. “Everything alright, baby?”
“No! No! No! Momma, please make him leave. Please make him leave before Papa gets home. Please.” Tears begin pouring down her face as she reaches her hands out for Jackie. “Please don’t let him whoop me. Please,” Grandma continues as she curls up into a ball beneath the sheets, holding a pillow tightly in her arms.
Jackie comes up behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder and passing me a compassionate look. She pulls a syringe from her scrubs pocket and leans down toward Grandma, whispering something inaudible, before she screws the syringe head into the IV port and empties its contents into the plastic tubing. It takes but a moment before the crying subsides and her eyelids droop. She remains awake, but quiet and still.
“What happened?” Jackie asks, but I can’t get out a response. She turns and looks at me just before I’m able to cover my face, the tears running freely down my cheeks. “Oh, baby, come here.” She takes me into her arms, and the moment she squeezes me in tight, the tears really start to fall, cascading down into my beard. I try to force them back, but it’s impossible. I’m completely overwhelmed.
“I—I didn’t mean to. I was j—just trying to get something out of her. Anything,” I choke out between sobs as she places a hand on the back of my neck and squeezes. “I thought I could spark some sort of memory. I thought—” My words are cut off by a fresh round of tears and from Jackie’s shoulder, I look down to see Grandma staring blankly at the wall without any idea of what’s happening around her. “I just miss her so much, Jackie. So much.”
“I know, baby. I know. This is such an ugly disease, you know?” She pulls back with her hands still on my shoulders, and she waits for my watery eyes to meet hers before continuing. “As much as we want to control it, there just isn’t anything we can do about it. They’re a slave to this disease and we’re just helpless spectators. I know you want something out of her, that last bit of time with her—the healthy her—before she goes, but the most important thing here is that she’s comfortable during this time. I know it’s hard, trust me. I’ve worked in this darn place for more years than I can count and seen an army of family members just like you, helpless but hopeful. I hate it just the same as the day I came in here as a twenty-two-year-old intern, but this is her path, Gavin. And we gotta let her travel it as comfortable as she can be.”
“Okay, Jackie. I understand,” I mutter before she takes me in for one last hug.
“Just read to her. She loves when you read to her. And I know you love it just the same. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back to check on you all in a bit.” She smiles and turns, leaving me alone in the room with Grandma again, who remains on her side with her far-off gaze.
I pull a chair closer to her bedside and take a seat, grabbing Jane Eyre from the nightstand as I do. Gently cracking the aged book open in my lap, I clear my throat before beginning to read.
I read for hours, long past the point where Grandma’s heavy eyelids close and her gentle snoring begins. After closing up the book and setting it back to the nightstand, I start the record player up once more. The setting sun’s crisp orange and red rays pour in through the small window, casting an angelic blanket of light over Grandma as she sleeps. I admire her for a moment, appreciating the life she’s given me, the love she’s shown me, and the belief she’s had in me. And I’m comforted in knowing that she may leave this world soon, but she’ll never leave my heart. I am only the man I am because of her. So in a way, she’ll live on with me to the end of my days.
As nightfall comes, and my eyelids become heavy, I decide to pull a few books out from the large stacks to read to her tomorrow. I guide my pointer over each binding—To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, Of Mice and Men—and pull each one out that I haven’t read in some time, with plans to read them to her every feasible minute of every damn day. Jackie’s right. If nothing else, I still have this time with her, reading to her the words she so cherished from the books she loved so much, and I will ensure she spends her remaining days hearing my voice.
After setting a pile on her nightstand, I go back to the dresser and scan the titles again. I finagle A Farewell to Arms, Pride & Prejudice, and Great Expectations from the heavy stacks, only the dim light of the nightstand lamp lighting my way. Steadying the books, I hear a rustle of sheets behind me. Turning around, I see Grandma sitting up from her bed and rubbing her tired eyes with balled up fists. She drops her hands and peers through the dark room at me.
“Hi Gracie,” I say, moving closer to her, the books still in my hands.
As I get closer, my face lit by the lamp, she asks, “Gavin… Gavin, where am I?”
“You’re in your room, Grace. Are you feeling okay?”
“This isn’t my room. Where’s your grandfather?” she asks, and a chill sweeps up my spine, the books tumbling from my hands to the floor.
“W—what did you just say?” I stammer, my eyes wide, my hands trembling.
“Gavin, you stop,” she says, confusion in her features, but a faint smile on her face. “Go get your grandpa, and please, pick my babies up off the floor.” She points down toward the books scattered at my feet.
“Grandma?” I whisper.
“Yes, honey?” she asks, and I begin weeping uncontrollably, charging forward and wrapping my arms around her.
“Grandma, you’re here. It—It’s you. It’s really you.”
“Well, who else would it be, silly?” she asks with a light giggle. I pull back from her, looking her in the eyes, trying my best to ensure this isn’t a dream. She runs a wrinkled finger down each of my cheeks, collecting up the mess of tears that coats them. “Why are you crying? Is Grandpa okay?”
I take a thick swallow, a crinkle of concern in my brows. “Grandpa passed about five years ago. Around the time you started slipping away from me. When the Alzheimer’s came.”
“Oh, dear,” she says softly, putting her hands to her heart. “Oh, John.”
“He went peacefully, Grandma. So peacefully. You were there by his side with me. You held him as he fell asleep. And I read to you b
oth. We were there all night together, until they took him away in the morning.”
“Oh, dear,” she repeats. “I remember. I remember.” A tear rolls down her cheek, her gaze falling to her tiny hands. “You read Gone with the Wind, didn’t you?”
“I did!” I say eagerly. “I just about read the whole thing to you that night as you held him.”
“Oh, John,” she says, the tears really falling now, and I take her trembling body in my arms once more.
“Everything is alright, Grandma. Everything is just fine.”
There’s a brief moment where she says nothing, her eyes taking in the books stacked across the room, and then out the window before they come back to me.
“Can you read it to me again, Gavin? Gone with the Wind?”
“Of course. There’s nothing in the world I’d rather do.”
I fight to steady myself on my shaky legs. My entire body trembles as I cross the room to the other nightstand and grab Gone with the Wind from it, my eyes never leaving her, hardly believing I’m getting the chance I am. I know these moments are fleeting. Before I know it, she will slip away from me again.
I choose not to focus on that, though. As I walk back over to my chair and take a seat—my heart is so full it could burst, my smile so broad I feel my skin might tear—I force myself to ignore what will inevitably come. I forget about the depression, the suicide attempt, my mother and father, Joanne and the heartbreak she caused, and I exist only right here, only right now.
Grandma lays her head back down on the pillow, but her attention is all mine, her eyes on me as I slip my hand into hers and squeeze.
“I love you so much, Grandma. You know that.”
She smiles faintly, her hand giving mine a good squeeze back, and she says, “I love you, too, darling. I love you, too.”
I flip the book open in my lap, keeping my other hand in hers as I turn to the first page.
“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm…” My voice is low, the words not the easiest to read from the dim lamp light, but I pay it no mind. I don’t want to change a thing. I don’t want any of this to go away. And at this point, I just about know the words by heart anyway.