by Leigh Kramer
My smile transitioned into a frown as I studied my work thus far. I softened her cheekbones, then set the paintbrush down. Her eyes weren't quite right, her lipstick a shade too red. I decided to move on to her clothes. If I continued to dab at her face, frustration would take over. I wanted to stay in this happy, nostalgic place.
I stood back and stretched my arms over my head. It felt good to hunker down in this makeshift studio again.
My phone rang from the recesses of my tote bag, “You Can't Always Get What You Want” trilling. I kept meaning to change the ring tone. I stared at the canvas and wavered on answering. Duty won and I fished it out.
Gram's name flashed on the display. I took in the late hour and answered warily.
An unfamiliar voice asked for me.
“Olivia? This is Mrs. Kimball from next door. Don't worry, dear,” she cautioned, but it was too late. “Your grandmother had a bit of a fall. She managed to call me and we've got her sitting back up. She didn't want me to call you, but I thought you'd want to know.”
“What? Is she okay?” My mind tore through a thousand possibilities of what had happened and what could still go wrong. I held my phone between my neck and shoulders so I could cap paint and set the brushes in thinner. My hands shook and it took a few attempts to twist the caps onto the bottles.
“She seems all right. She's entertaining my husband with stories about bridge club at the moment. I'm not sure how she fell. We're glad we were home when she called.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kimball.” I tried to think. It was already close to nine. “Do you know if Gram called hospice?” I didn't know what the neighbors knew about Gram's condition but it was too late to concern myself with that.
“No, I don't think she did. Would you like me to ask?” Mrs. Kimball didn't seem fazed by the mention of hospice.
“No, that's fine. I’ll call and then I'll head to Gram's. I hate to ask this of you, but would you mind staying with her until I get there? If you can't, it's fine. I'll call...” My voice trailed off as I considered which relative to involve. Gram would not be happy with me.
“Don't you worry about it, Olivia. We'd love to stay. Drive carefully.”
I hung up the phone, then scrolled through my contacts until I found Sanctuary's number.
Instead of connecting to someone in the office, the answering service directed me to leave a message and wait for the on-call triage nurse to call me back. It was Friday night. Of course no one would be in the office waiting for my call. I left a hurried message and then raced out of the gallery.
My phone rang as I directed my car onto the interstate. I cursed myself for stowing the phone in the recesses of my purse. My hand pawed through the contents while I pulled off the exit ramp and into the flow of traffic. This would not be a good time for an accident.
Success. I grabbed and answered, hoping it would be the hospice.
“Olivia? This is Sam, I'm the on-call nurse for Sanctuary Hospice returning your call.” The sound of his voice soothed me and tension eased from my shoulders. We were going to be fine.
“Thank you for calling back so quickly. I'm sorry to interrupt your night,” I apologized.
“Nonsense,” Sam replied. “This is what we're here for. How can I help you?”
I sighed. “My grandmother's neighbor called about ten minutes ago and said Gram had fallen. She managed to get to the phone and call them and they were able to pick her back up. I'm on my way there from Oak Park right now—she's in Geneva. I don't know how she fell or if she's all right or how long she was on the ground. I was hoping someone could check on her?”
“Did the neighbor say whether your grandmother was experiencing any pain?”
“No, she didn't think there was anything wrong. Gram has been living on her own for years and has never fallen before. I'm worried about what this means. She's been doing so well…” my voice trailed off.
“We don't usually come out when a patient has fallen, unless there's been a change in condition. If her hip appeared broken, we'd probably direct you to the hospital.”
“Her hip could be broken?” My voice came out shrill. I hadn't even thought of that possibility.
“I don't want to alarm you but that is a possibility when an elderly patient falls. But the neighbor would have known if that was the case,” he reassured me.
I processed this information as I sped up my car. I hoped there weren’t any speed traps set up tonight.
“Um, does that mean a nurse won't come out?” I asked, my voice meek and quiet. Nerves aside, I did not want to be the demanding hysterical granddaughter.
“I can have the nurse come out this time and do an assessment. It might be an hour or two before she can get there, however. Are you willing to wait?”
“Yes, we'll wait,” I responded with enthusiasm and gratitude. A pity visit I would take.
“All right, I'll let the nurse know. If you get to your grandmother's house and anything has changed, please call me back and let me know. We can take it from there. Otherwise, the nurse will call when she's on her way.”
I thanked Sam more effusively than necessary. I needed someone to tell me Gram would be fine, even if that meant the on-call nurse had to come out late on a Friday night. I'd bake cookies for him or her if I had to.
The drive vanished in record time. Before I knew it, my car screeched to a halt in front of Gram's house. The front porch light lit up the lawn and the house was bright inside. Gram tended to be in bed by nine-thirty at the latest. To see the house still full of life at this time of the night left me uneasy. I ran in to the house, not stopping until I found Gram in her usual spot.
Far from tired, she basked in the spotlight, regaling the Kimballs with tales from one of her trips to Asia. Only Gram.
I halted in front of her. She didn't look any worse for wear. There were no pools of blood on the floor, no black eyes, no limbs askew.
“Why, Olivia,” Gram exclaimed. “How marvelous of you to join us, though it really isn't necessary. I'm perfectly fine.”
I traded glances with Mrs. Kimball.
“That's not what I heard, Gram. I called Sanctuary and a nurse will be coming out soon to check on you. You scared me,” I admonished her.
Gram's demeanor shifted from Southern belle to family matriarch. Frasiers learned to detect this subtle change at an early age. Once Gram decided she'd reached her limit, it was best to get out of her way but I would not budge this time.
“Don't even start, Gram. You've never fallen before. What if you have, I don't know, internal injuries?”
She fixed her eyes on me, which I met squarely. The sounds of the Kimballs standing and preparing to leave interrupted our stand-off.
“We'll let you be for the night. Ella May, a pleasure to talk to you as always,” Mr. Kimball said.
“Thank you for being here and for calling me. I appreciate it so much,” I called after them. They waved their goodbyes and left us to our own devices.
“As I said before, I'm perfectly fine. Look at me, Olivia Jane,” she declared, gesturing to the way her body fully reclined in the chair. “My feet must have tangled with the rug. It stunned me, which is why I called the neighbors for assistance.”
“Which rug?” I asked, my eyes narrowed. We'd removed the rugs back when Gram first signed up for hospice because they were fall risks. Had we missed one?
Gram gestured vaguely toward any room in the house. “I don't know, but I'm sure it was the rug's fault.”
“Gram, which room did you fall in?”
“This one,” she replied more petulantly than I thought possible for a grown adult. “And yes, I know there are no rugs in here but please allow me to keep my dignity.”
Duly chastened, I dropped my purse to the floor and sank to my knees in front of her.
“I won't let my body fail me this close to your brother's wedding,” she remarked with resolve, her eyes straight ahead. She tipped her head down to me and our eyes mirrored the unknown and unsaid.
“You're going to be just fine, Gram,” I responded automatically.
Gram patted me on the head in acknowledgment.
“For my own sake and peace of mind, will you please tell me what happened?” I wouldn't apologize for reacting the way I did or for calling hospice. Somehow, I needed to balance my concern with respect. Gram was still her own person. While I might call my family out for forgetting that, I didn't want to be guilty of it myself.
Gram sighed. She had not been truly held accountable for her actions since Pop died. Oh, I was sure her friends were allowed to keep her in check at times, but her children and grandchildren rarely dared.
“A friend dropped me off after a charity luncheon. I came inside, fixed myself some tea, and headed to sit down in this very chair and relax a while. Right as I entered the room, I realized I forgot to grab the saucer for the spent tea bag. I went to turn around and retrieve it. Instead I lost my balance and fell.” Gram pointed toward the coffee table. “Took a good thwack on that. I'm sure my leg will be black and blue for weeks. So much for showing off my prizewinners at the wedding.”
I wanted to laugh at her conceit but the image of her falling and hitting the coffee table made me wince. If it happened after she got home from lunch and the Kimballs hadn't called until almost nine, how long had she been lying there hurt?
“Of course, my perfect cup of Earl Gray went flying across the room. Luckily, it didn't break. Sally was a dear and cleaned up the spot. She said it hadn't stained too badly before their arrival.”
“How soon were you even able to call for help?” I tried to keep a neutral tone.
Gram pursed her lips as she thought. “I'm not sure. That coffee table hurt like the dickens. I might have passed out for a while.” She caught sight of my wide eyes and amended her report. “Or a few minutes at the most. I didn't feel steady enough to stand so I inched my way over to the phone. Don't ask me how long that took because I don't know. When you're in pain, a minute feels like an hour. I'm grateful the Kimballs were home. I don't know who else I would've called.”
“Gram, you have an army of relatives nearby who would only be too glad to help.”
“Exactly. I don't want them to see me like this. Everyone needs to think and believe the best about my condition.”
“Did something change that I don't know about?” She was starting to worry me.
“No, no, dear. It's a gradual decline, exactly as Justin said it would be. Some days are better than others. We both know how this family is. They need a strong leader and I'm the matriarch. I won't show them any weakness until I'm too sick to care.”
“You don't have to be like that. If you show this side of yourself to me, you should be able to show it to everyone.”
Gram chuckled. “Olivia Jane, you forget you're not like the rest. That's why I chose you. And that's why I let the Kimballs call you tonight. I could have easily not said a word.”
“As in, you've fallen before and not told me?”
“No, I haven't. But this isn't easy for me, any of it. If I get upset that my body is playing tricks on me, don't take it personally.”
“You can be upset, Gram. On the other hand, when I tell you hospice is coming, you can't take it personally either. I don't want you to be in pain when you don’t have to be. Speaking of which, how is your pain?”
“Not too bad. The neighbors slipped me a mickey after they picked me off the floor.”
“One pain pill or two?” She was pretty coherent if she had two of those floating through her on top of her normal dosage.
Gram nodded vaguely, then glanced at the clock. “It's late. Are you sure they're coming?”
So much for a straight answer. I'd let the nurse sort it out.
“Yes, they'll call when they're on the way. The triage nurse made it sound like it was a busy night. Why don't you rest until they're here?”
The words barely left my mouth before Gram drowsily acquiesced. I tiptoed to the kitchen with my purse. I sank in to a chair and let this evening process over me. A restlessness replaced my foreboding spirit. I searched for dishes to wash or piles to sort but Gram's home had already been tidied up. I pondered making cookies for the nurse but I didn't want the stirring and whirring to wake Gram.
Instead, I started the tea kettle and pulled out my journal. The journal I kept stashing in my purse in the hope that I would record the events of the past few months. I'd written and doodled my way through life until recently. The journals of my youth showed a marked contrast between before and after my father's death. That's when they transitioned from swooning over boys to sorting through the seasons of grief. Anything that could not be said to family was sorted out in the journal.
But the words wouldn’t come now. A day or two after the family meeting, I sat down with the journal and a few colored pencils, thinking I would free form my way through it but I was stuck. I remained stuck. As if I believed putting the words down would make this more real. I could talk to my friends or Reagan—and these interactions helped—but my journal had seen it all. I didn't need to edit my emotions or backtrack to fill in details.
However, the journal had stayed hidden for the past couple months. The list of things to write about snowballed. I itched to write about the night Reagan appeared at my apartment and asked me to dance with him in the rain but how could I do that when I hadn't written about Gram? For a creative person, I was surprisingly linear when it came to journaling.
I opened the pages of the worn leather binding, thumbing through the last few entries. One in February, questioning my calling yet noting the gallery's success and what I enjoyed about my work. A few weeks later, some lyrics from a show and a rendering of a pooling waterfall. Two days before the family meeting, unpacking an offhanded comment made at book club. Nothing of great import and perhaps why I hated to sully the pages with such heavy news.
It was time. An unknown quantity of hours stretched before me and I had no other form of distraction. I started with a sketch of Gram, the way my mind's eye recalled her the fateful day of the family meeting. I filled in the words and phrases that continued to haunt us. As I wrote, the confusion, anger, and sadness settled in once more. This was the reason I hadn't written. I didn't want to go back to that day and relive the frenetic emotions.
Instead of lingering, I occupied myself with a drawing of Uncle Marcus. I exaggerated his scowl and added devil horns for effect. He'd never forgive Gram for choosing me over him but, as he couldn't stay mad at his mother, I remained the scapegoat. It served to add more fuel to the fire. No matter how badly Gram wished for reconciliation, it wouldn't happen until Marcus got over himself. Which was to say, never.
This caricature was an equalizer in my mind. Lighter in spirit, I jotted a few notes about the hospice team and the rhythms my life had taken on the past few weeks. I turned the page, my mouth upturned with thoughts of Reagan. What to say about him?
Hard to believe we'd only known each other since mid-April. He fit into my life easily, understanding so much about who I was. There was still much for him to learn about me but then again, not even my closest friends knew everything. For all my free-spirited ways, my many years as a professional Frasier had an unfortunate side effect—I was overly aware of public perception. I didn't know if my secrets would ever see the light of day. I remained torn between laying down these burdens and spoiling the image people had of me.
It was too early in the relationship to consider any major revelations. Perhaps in a year it would be time, if we were even still together. Certainly not now. A disquieted spirit rose up in me as I considered the story Reagan had entrusted to me. He did not talk about that period of his life often or with many, but he had chosen to tell me. Why then could I not do the same in return?
Because your story is different. I could handle a dead girlfriend. He would not be able to handle this. I could barely handle my past humiliation and I'd lived through it.
I had the promise of “I like you” and nothing more.
If not for the distraction of Gram's health, I'd have fixated on where we were headed and whether Reagan was too good to be true. Instead, I looked forward to the times we spent together and tried not to think about an inevitable end.
I stopped my maudlin thoughts, instead focusing on Reagan's strength and his rugged confidence. I drew his hands cupping his coffee, adding a few ever-present paint streaks. Those hands amazed me with how they could create and caress.
The clock chimed midnight. I took the opportunity to stand up and stretch. I scrolled through the notifications on my phone, hoping I'd been too immersed in journaling for a call to register. Unfortunately, there were no missed calls.
And then, as if it were meant to be, the phone rang. Carol would be here in twenty minutes. When the tall older white woman with short cropped hair strode into the house twenty minutes later as promised, tension eased from my body. Her very presence radiated authority. We murmured in the foyer as I brought her up to date. Carol wasted no time with pleasantries and began asking questions.
“Do you know when she last ate? Has she been complaining about feeling dizzy, anything like that?”
“She told me she'd come home from a luncheon but she didn’t tell me what she ate. She doesn't give a straight answer about matters she deems to be private, unless a nurse or doctor is asking. You'll have better luck than me. She's never mentioned feeling dizzy and she's actually been more active lately. She's been doing so well,” I moaned. Anxiety crawled up my skin and made a nest in my stomach.
“She might still be doing well. Falls happen even to the best of us. I'll look her over and rule out a fracture. Then we'll talk about what steps to take next.”
Gram woke easily enough. She stretched her arms, reminiscent of a baby bird, and blinked sleep from her eyes. She obediently answered Carol's queries. No, she'd eaten very little before arriving home. Yes, she'd felt dizzy before. No, the pain medication was not enough, she'd rate herself at an eight.