My mother and grandmother sat at the end of my bed in these small, discolored chairs. The wooden frame of the seat looked like they were covered with tattoos: marked and covered with graffiti. They must’ve brought those chairs from the local Junior high. The only reason why I can tell is by the amount of dicks drawn on it.
“Why? Did she… Did she tell you why she didn’t come?” I asked, disheartened and in a bit of disbelief.
My mom’s eyes had this expression of analyzation when she looked at me, “I called her over the phone yesterday. Charlotte said that she was unable to come because she had business in San Franciso.”
“…Do you know what she was doing there?” I asked.
“No,” my mom said before changing the mood, “But aren’t you happy that we’re here?”
I smiled at her, “Yeah, of course I’m happy. I missed both you and Grandma. How have things been while I was sleeping?”
“Sleeping?!” my mom’s mood quickly changed. With just that little slip of the tongue, I could tell she was about to chew me out. Then again, I did kind of deserve it. “That’s one way to say it: you had me and your grandmother worried sick! Jesus, Franklin! What in God’s name were you thinking? Or were you not thinking at all?!”
While my mom insulted my intelligence and common sense, rightfully so, I looked at my grandma. She sat there silently and lost as ever. Man, I was away for three months, and she looked so different from what I could remember. I could recognize that it was her, but when I stared into her eyes, someone other than my grandma peered back.
She hadn’t been able to care for herself since I was 15; she became dangerously confused and had become very forgetful of everything. It started first with her forgetting what she did the day before, then forgetting why she left her house, then forgetting if she ate, and it escalated to where she was lost in the street, not knowing where she was or who she was. As far as I know, my grandma might not even know what humans are and just see us as disjointed and repulsive monsters.
About three years ago, she stopped talking. I remember that day, I was really concerned, and my mother was bawling her poor eyes out. We thought for sure that this was the beginning of her death. I pleaded with my mom that we should take her to the hospital in San Francisco because the hospital here in St. Anthony doesn’t have a geriatrician. If anything, the hospital here has very little and is incredibly ill-equipped to handle such diseases.
“I know Franklin, I want to take Grandma too… but once we get there, then what?” my mom said with tears in her eyes, “The bills, the medicine, the doctor visits. We can’t do that. We just can’t!”
That day really hurt me. I had never felt so broke in my life.
I had no choice but to agree with my mom. We didn’t have that kind of money; the truth is there aren’t many old people here in St. Anthony, not because they move away but because people just don’t reach that kind of age here.
Her condition worsened with time. Several months later, she stopped talking entirely. I think she no longer knew what she was. The idea of her humanity and ego was gone; she was just left as a pair of curious eyes. She was alive and awake, but her mind was asleep; she would blankly gaze at things and not react. I’ve spent many nights alone in bed, praying and hoping something like that won’t happen to me or my mom when we get older.
On my days off, and when I wasn’t meeting Charlotte for a date, I would spend my time at home. My mom would wake up early and take the car for a drive through town and stop by Miracle’s bakery to bring home pastries. I would wake up early and help my grandma from my mom’s room to the living room. I would always sit my grandma on her rocking chair near the living room window to look outside, but she would always just stare at the clouds passing above our house. Afterward, I would make coffee and prepare our humble kitchen table before my mom would return. That way, we can all sit down and appreciate the pastries and coffee while they are both still warm.
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But there was always an air of sadness when we ate those sweet desserts. My mother, grandmother and I would sit at the table, but we never really spoke. My mom would be too preoccupied trying to feed my grandma and cleaning after her, or when we did have a conversation, I always felt sorry that my grandma couldn’t interact with us.
This one day in May, I woke up feeling particularly romantic for some reason. I think the day before, I took Charlotte out and got lucky. After moving my grandma, I played an Annette Hanshaw compilation album. This particular record belonged to my grandma; apparently, she was a big fan of Hanshaw. My mom once told me that when they immigrated from Ireland in 1928, Hanshaw’s songs would constantly be singing her songs in the morning radio program in New York.
“Your grandmother didn’t know a single fucking word of English, but she loved those songs truly. I guess she just liked how she sang or how the songs sounded: the melody? I don’t know.”
The song “Let’s Fall in Love” played softly from the living room while I was grounding that morning’s coffee. As I went to grab a pot to boil water, I passed by the door leading to the living room, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I saw my grandma smiling with her mouth open like she was trying to laugh, but no sound would come from her frail, unused vocal cords.
When my mom got home, she found me on the floor before my grandma, staring at her with so much wonder. When I tried to explain to her that I saw Grandma smiling and laughing, she didn’t believe me. I mean, of course, she wouldn’t believe me; we hadn’t seen Grandma do anything but just stare at things for about a year and a half. That was until I played that Hanshaw record.
At first, my grandma blankly watched the clouds while the album played, “She’s not laughing, Franklin. Are you sure you weren’t imagining it?” my mom asked.
“I swear to you,” I tried to convince her, “Just give it some more time.”
Sure enough, when that specific song began to play, my grandma smiled and tried to force out laughter. I looked over at my mom, and her eyes began to swell up with tears, “Oh my lord,” she accidentally let out and began to cry. I put my arms around my mom to comfort her and cried with her.
“Look at her face, Franklin! My poor mother… I thought she was really gone! But look at her, she’s laughing! Even if it’s just a memory, she’s finally enjoying something at least.”
Those words never left my head; they were forever seared into my mind, and that memory comes back to me every now and then. After that day, my mother and I decided that every Saturday, when we would sit down to drink our coffee and eat our sweet bread, we would play that specific Annette Hanshaw record. That way, when we would catch each other savoring our meal, conversation, or recounts of our past, my grandma would also be enjoying herself.
“Hello?! Franklin?! Are you listening to anything I am saying?” my mother asked. Throughout my entire mother’s tirade about my foolishness, I completely blocked everything out and had that memory come into my head. I do feel guilty that I wasn’t paying attention to my mother’s lecture, but whatever she has to tell me, she’s said to me in the past. The best I can do is nod and agree with her.
“Yes, I was listening, Mom,” I told her.
“You were, were you? Then what I was telling you?”
I paused, and my eyes must’ve widened. I was caught in a lie, but I knew I couldn’t give up like that; I had to think of something clever to say to her. Judging by her face, I could tell that she was upset. That’s a given.
“I know, I’m sorry, mom. I won’t do something that stupid ever again in my life”, I said, feeling very accomplished of myself. I know she was mad at me, and I know that she was chewing me out, so whatever she had to be talking about had to do with me. But she rolled her eyes; my fool-proof plan had failed.
“No, you dumbass! I was telling you that your cousin George is coming to visit you. Besides us, he was worrying for you.”
“George?” I repeated in shock. Hell, I haven’t seen him in years, not since he was drafted.