by Ann Walsh
“Damned doctor’s also trying to blackmail me.” She pushed herself up from the stool and grabbed her cane. “I promised him I’d lie down every afternoon for an hour. Didn’t do it earlier, so guess I have to now. Whip up a batch of cheese biscuits, and knock on the bedroom door before you leave. Mind you wash your dishes, a good cook always—”
“—cleans up after herself.” I finished the familiar sentence for her. She nodded, poured herself a glass of water and swallowed a pill from the bottle she kept in a kitchen cupboard. I watched her move slowly down the hall, one hand on the wall, the other on her cane. She didn’t look back, and the bedroom door clicked firmly shut behind her.
The biscuits were all mixed, dry and liquid ingredients together and just the right texture, when the thought hit me: Mrs. J. looked old today. Old and tired. My eyes misted over, and I sniffed back tears. “Everyone gets old. Snap out of it, girl.” Sheesh. Now I was sounding like her in my own head. I dumped the dough onto the floured counter and began kneading it more vigorously than the instructions called for or was good for the biscuits. “Whatever,” I said out loud, pounding my fist into the dough. “Whatever.”
“What did that poor dough do to you to deserve that rough treatment?” someone asked.
I jumped. “Robin! How did you get here?”
“No one answered when I knocked, so I just came in. Gran never locks her door. Where is she?”
“She’s having a nap.”
“A what?”
“Nap. You know. Lie down, put your head on a pillow, rest. Pass me a glass from that cupboard.” I liked using a heavy tumbler to cut the dough, even though I now knew where the cookie cutters were kept and could have used those to shape the biscuits.
“Of course I know what a nap is, I only look dense. Actually I’m quite smart.”
“Really?”
“Really. But why is Gran lying down in the middle of the afternoon?”
“Her doct . . . uh . . . her leg hurt.”
“I’m not surprised. Yesterday I had to take her to the doctor and he prescribed more of those pain pills she uses. I promised her I’d pick them up today. She started complaining that her leg hurt as soon as he took the cast off.”
“Her cast isn’t off. She’s still wearing it.”
“That’s a different one. Didn’t you notice? It has straps and can be removed. It’s got balloons inside . . .”
“Balloons?”
He shrugged. “Something like that. The doctor called it an air boot. Probably not really balloons.”
He disappeared into the front hall and returned pushing a three-wheeled walker with black rubber handles and hand brakes like a bicycle. An old-fashioned wire basket was hooked onto the front.
“Looks like a tricycle. Hey, it even has a bicycle bell.” I reached a floury hand and made the shiny little bell ding. “Sounds the same as the one I had on my tricycle.”
“Don’t let Gran hear you say that! She snarled at the doctor when he suggested it, said she’d never use one of those things.”
“So why did you bring her one? And where did you get it?”
“The doctor called Mom and told her to make sure Gran got herself a walker. Said she needed more support than her cane until her leg muscles got stronger, so Mom sent me to the hospital to pick one up. They have a basement room full of crutches, walkers, those plastic seats for the toilet and other stuff that they lend out. Took me forever to get down to the basement and then come back up. Those elevators are really slow.”
Okay, let’s fast forward over any slow hospital elevator references. “You’re taking a chance bringing it here. She’ll explode when she sees it.”
“She will, won’t she? I forgot, I have to go. You can introduce Gran to the walker. Bye.” But he sat down on the tall wooden stool and grinned instead of heading for the front door.
“I bet you won’t go anywhere until you have some biscuits.” I popped the tray into the preheated oven and set the timer.
Robin held up a finger and smiled. “Option One, eat and get bawled out by Gran.” He held up another finger. “Or, Option Two, leave, escape getting reamed out and stay hungry. That’s a hard decision.”
I turned away, quickly. He looked like one of those Roman gods, blond curly hair, tall. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he was—
“What’s a hard decision, Robin?”
Mrs. J. had come down the hallway so quietly neither of us had heard her. “What decision do you—get that damned thing out of here. Now!” She had seen the walker.
Robin looked at me. “How soon will those biscuits be ready? Can I have one to go?”
“You’re not going anywhere, young man, until you explain why you brought that thing into my house. I told the doctor that I didn’t want it. You heard me!”
“The doctor called Mom,” said Robin. “He said he didn’t think you paid any attention to him. Mom told me to go get it. It’s not my fault. I got your prescription, too.” He held out a small white bag from the pharmacy. “I remembered to pick these up.”
“No point trying to get on my good side,” she said. “You heard me tell the doctor I wouldn’t use an old fart’s walker!”
Old fart? She was annoyed. I thought I’d try to settle her down. “You don’t have to use the walker all the time, Mrs. J.”
“That’s not what the doctor told her,” said Robin.
“Hey, I’m trying to help you out,” I hissed at him.
“I don’t care what the doctor said. I hate that damned thing.”
“You haven’t tried it yet, Gran. Maybe it will be fun.”
“If the snow holds off, we can go for walks while I’m here. It might be handy for outside. Just for a while. Until you get stronger, you know, um . . .” My voice trailed off; it sort of withered away under her stare, my words drying up.
She glared at me some more, then at Robin again. “Conspiracy!”
We didn’t say anything, and she pointed her cane at Robin perched on the stool. “Go sit somewhere else, you know that’s my place. But first, wheel that thing out of my sight. And you, girl, put on the kettle. I need tea.” I scurried around moving the bowls and rolling pin off the counter, wiping it down and filling the kettle.
“I thought you were taking a nap, Mrs. J. It hasn’t been an hour yet.”
“Got bored.”
“I bet you couldn’t stand leaving Darrah alone in your kitchen. Afraid she’d break something.” Robin was back, without the walker.
Both Mrs. J. and I glared at him. “I’ve never broken . . .”
“Nonsense, the girl’s quite capable of . . .”
“Hey, that’s not fair, both of you picking on me at once.”
“Shall we let him stay until the biscuits are ready? Or shall we evict him now?” Mrs. J. flourished her cane and looked ready to personally toss Robin out. I had a vision of her grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and throwing him out the front door, like a burly club bouncer.
“Hey,” he protested again. “It was a joke, enough already.”
I picked up the rolling pin. “I think he should leave,” I said, taking a step towards him and hoping I looked as scary Mrs. J. did.
“The kettle’s boiling, it needs you,” Robin said, grinning at me. “And by the way, Gran does the scowl way better than you.”
“Had more years to practice,” said his grandmother. “How are those biscuits coming?”
The timer dinged. I checked, declared the biscuits ready and pulled them out of the oven, carefully leaving the oven door ajar (“no point in wasting all that heat”) as Mrs. J. always instructed. Robin grabbed a biscuit right off the pan.
“Ow, they’re hot,” he muttered through the first bite.
“Where are your manners, young man? You know better than to talk with your mouth full. I’ve had enough of you today. Go away. Take the girl with you.”
“What about your tea?” I asked.
“Make a pot, then go. It’s early, you can have credit fo
r the full two and a half hours. I’ve had enough company for now.”
“What about a good cook always cleaning up after herself?”
“You’re excused for today, girl. Karen’s coming over later to unstrap this contraption and help me do the ridiculous exercises the doctor wants me to do. Don’t see any use to them, but he’s insisting. She’ll clean up. You two get yourselves out of here.”
“She’s cranky today,” said Robin once we were in the car.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
He ignored my sarcasm. “The doctor told her she’d have lots of physiotherapy and would have to do exercises every day.”
“Exercises? Like a treadmill? Or swimming?” I had a bizarre vision of Mrs. J. in a pink flowered bathing cap doing lengths in the community pool.
“No, easier ones. Like drawing letters of the alphabet with her big toe. I guess she’ll graduate to something harder later on. Hey, do you . . .”
“I thought she’d be in a cast longer.”
“It wasn’t really a break, just a crack in a leg bone.”
“The tibia?” I asked. “That’s what Andrew broke when he was seven.”
“No, the other bone, the one that isn’t so big or important. I think the doctor just put the cast on to slow her down so she couldn’t dig up her garden or do something else that would make it snap right through.”
I was still thinking of the pink bathing cap. “I can’t imagine her swimming.”
“Nope, I can’t either. But in the spring, she’ll get lots of exercise. She likes to mow the lawn herself, with one of those old push mowers. Hey, you want to . . .”
“Want to what? Help your grandmother draw letters with her big toe? Not a chance.”
“No, she won’t let anyone but Karen help her. I meant would you like to . . . there’s this new movie, aliens conquering earth, I thought . . .”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s a remake of a classic, isn’t it? Got good reviews.”
“Would you like to go?”
“With you?” Was he . . . he was asking me out! I felt my cheeks go red, and turned away from him, staring out the car window. Of course I’d like to go out with him, but I had this awkward problem with my parents.
“No, with Gran. Of course with me. Who did you think I meant?”
“I’d like to, but I have to ask my parents.”
“If they say yes, will you go?”
I turned away from the window, but couldn’t look him in the eyes, so I stared down at my hands. “I don’t think they’ll let me.”
“What? They want to see my references?”
“No, it isn’t that.”
“What is it then?”
Might as well get it over with. “I’m grounded.”
“You? What did you do, rob a bank?”
I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. How could I say it?— I’m sorry Robin but I’m the reason your grandmother’s got a broken leg. I’m the reason you have to take her to doctors’ appointments, dig up her garden and pick up her prescriptions and walkers. That’s why I’m grounded.
“I can’t tell you,” I said at last. “But I’m really, really sorry.” Consequence Number Three was still hanging over my life like a black cloud. I was grounded until all the sanctions were finished, until I no longer had to go to Mrs. J.’s twice a week.
We stopped in front of my house. “When are you ungrounded?”
I did a quick calculation of my remaining hours. “After New Year’s.”
“That’s a long time. Maybe you did rob a bank.”
“No, I didn’t. Almost as bad, but I can’t tell you. I’m so sorry, Robin.” I opened the car door and escaped before he could ask what I was so sorry for and why I was crying.
Chapter Eleven
I DIDN’T MAKE IT into the house. The front door flew open and Andrew ran out. “Hey, who’s the guy? Thought you were grounded. Does Dad know you’re on a date with a guy?”
“It’s not a date! He just drove me home.” I tried to push past Andrew but he didn’t move. He made a noise, almost a grunt and then he fell. It was as if his body had forgotten how to hold itself upright. He fell straight back, as if he were a knocked-over tin soldier.
Andrew’s head hit the lawn, but the rest of him landed on the cement sidewalk. “Mom,” I yelled, kneeling down beside my brother. “Mom!”
But Robin was there first. He hadn’t driven off, he had been watching. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked. “Should I call 911?”
“Quick, put your jacket under his head in case he bangs his head around. Mom! Mom!”
She was suddenly beside me. “Oh, Darrah, oh, Andrew, oh . . .”
“Stay calm, Mom. He’s going to be okay. One of Andrew’s arms had flown up, narrowly missing Robin’s face. “Move his backpack out of the way, Robin, so he doesn’t bang against it, and you move too.”
Robin stepped back.“Shouldn’t we call 911?” He already had his phone out.
“Yes. Call them, call!”
“No, Mom, no! You know what the doctors keep telling you. Let the seizure take its course. Wait at least five minutes.”
It didn’t last five minutes, it didn’t even last three. I was counting the seconds, as I always did if I couldn’t see a clock. Usually Andrew’s seizures were only a minute or two, but it always seemed like forever while it was happening. “One hundred and thirty-five,” I said out loud. “One hundred and thirty-six . . . thirty-seven.” He stopped jerking, his eyelids stopped flickering up and down and he began to breathe normally again. It was over.
“Help me get him into the house,” said Mom, reaching under his legs.
“I can do it,” said Robin. “You get the door and tell me where to take him.” He scooped Andrew up, lifting him easily. Mom flew up the stairs, and held the door open. I could hear her voice directing Robin. “Up the stairs, first right, be careful, don’t drop him.”
I picked up my backpack and shut the driver’s door of Robin’s car. He’d left it open when he jumped out to help us. I shut the front door behind me. Mom had left that wide open, too. I dumped my backpack in the front hall and started up the stairs.
Robin was on his way down. “Your mom says he’ll be fine now, that he just needs to sleep for a bit. She’s staying up there with him. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, then burst into tears. “Andrew hasn’t had a seizure for at least two weeks. We thought his new medication was working.”
“Need a hug?” He put his arms around me and pulled me to him without waiting for my answer.
I bawled louder. Yes, I needed a hug. I needed more than one, I needed a whole barrel of hugs. It was too much. Too much for Mom and Dad and too much for me. Andrew looked so helpless during a seizure—we were helpless. Then he would be pale and tired for hours, for days afterwards. “It’s not fair,” I said into Robin’s shoulder. “He’s not even twelve.” I cried some more.
“Um, my jacket’s getting soggy.” Robin steered me to the kitchen and sat me down on a chair. He looked around, found the box of tissue on top of the fridge and held it out to me. “Here, mop up. But I’ve still got one dry shoulder. You’re welcome to it if you need it.”
“I’ll be okay. Thanks for the tissue.” And the hug, I thought. Especially for the hug.
“Want to talk about it?”
Did I? I must have needed to talk, because it all came flooding out: how our lives had changed so much since Andrew’s seizures started; how we were always on edge, waiting for the next one; how I didn’t get the part in the play because Mom took him to the hospital; how I got so mad I . . .
Then I stopped. Even while my mouth was running overtime and my eyes were pumping out the tears they’d been saving up for months, I knew I couldn’t say anymore.
“It’s been rough, hasn’t it?”
I nodded, still not trusting my mouth not to blurt out things it shouldn’t.
There was a cough from the hallway. Mom was behind us. “Sorry to interrupt,�
�� she said to Robin, “but whoever you are, I want to thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Then she turned to me. “Darrah, you’re supposed to be doing your sanctions with Mrs. Johnson. Why are you here?”
Robin and I spoke at once. “Mom, he was driving me . . .”
“My grandmother asked me to take . . .”
“You’re Mrs. Johnson’s grandson?”
“Yes, ma’am. She asked me to bring Darrah home.”
“She did?”
“Yes, ma’am. Gran sent her away early today.”
“Oh.”
Thankfully the word “sanctions” didn’t ring any bells for Robin. “I wouldn’t skip out on my hours, Mom,” I said indignantly.
“I know you wouldn’t, Darrah. I wasn’t thinking straight.” She turned to Robin. “I’m sorry, young man . . .”
“Robin,” I said. “His name is Robin, Mom.”
“I’m sorry I leaped to conclusions, Robin, and thank you for your help. I’m afraid I always get a bit emotional after one of Andrew’s . . .” Then she burst into tears.
Robin grabbed a handful of tissues from the box he was still holding and passed them to Mom. For a minute I thought he was going to offer her a hug, too, but all he did was pat her awkwardly on the shoulder.
She grabbed the tissues, muttered “thanks,” and fled.
“Is she all right?” Robin asked.
I nodded. “She’ll be okay. We all will. I guess we all thought—hoped—that the new meds would stop the seizures completely. I think that’s why she’s so upset.”
“I don’t blame her. Need another hug?”
“No. Stay away or I’ll start bawling again.”
“Are you sure I can’t help?”
“No, thanks, no one can help. Andrew will sleep, Mom will helicopter around him when he wakes up, and for the next week or so Dad will invent six more ways of not saying ‘epilepsy’ and life in the Patrick household will go on.”