Chapter 8 - Changed Eight Ways From Sunday

I seriously feared that grandpa was going to harm himself. Thinking about Lacy and imagining what she must be going through downstairs, I mentally focused all the encouragement I could muster for her half of things. Past a certain point, I preemptively flushed. The old pipes gave a lengthy, higher-pitched "thunk" of complaint followed by questionable sounds of fluid churning and shifting, as though some heavy sediment had worked its way inside. Eventually, a whoosh of release dipped down, rattling the wall as the currents in the bowl worked to refresh and swirl it clean.

And yet, the sounds from our grandfather continued unabated with that bear seemingly destined to caterwaul and demolish down an infinite cliff. However, sweat dripping and glossing over his features, the pace of what was happening to grandpa seemed to slow. All the while, his meager hair experienced a second spring, blooming with brilliant highlights of red.

That spring feathered its way over his entire head, bursting into the ruddy, solar prominences of dense, layered bangs. The snowy tufts of age ran with red, like the veins of a fire. They licked and danced through the accelerating forest of his hair. The naturally-twisty brambles jutted out like disheveled wings across his buried ears. A flame curtain blanketed his back, almost touching the seat he awkwardly tried to find a good position on.

That inferno of Irish red belonged to Riona. She was practically Rapunzel at a certain age, before so many things started to eat her kindness and she demanded a short cut from a television show at the time.

Unless the bananas demanded Riona be twins, then all I could surmise was grandma would soon be a young version of my father.

But I didn't have the time to process that, along with the rest of the backlog of worries, as grandpa's rough, willow bark-like skin yanked smoothly taut against his dwindling bones. His fingers flexed out of the binds of arthritis and rose, as though stretching out for something unseen. His legs, once knee-touching and sprawled across the floor, lifted and arched to gingerly graze tile.

I watched, though I often sought reasons to look away, as his features sunk into the frightened reflection of his own daughter. Exhausted and panting, the little girl version of my aunt sat there with the sleeves of grandpa's cream shirt leaving her unable to use or find her hands.

Searching around where I left Lacy's gloves, I retrieved a flowing towel to provide the new girl with some measure of modesty, even though I morbidly reminded myself we were both girls. And I had tended to grandpa, especially in times of illness and to relieve Lacy and grandma, more than once.

At the very least, grandpa was a fraction of the weight I had to lift in those times. Being currently stuck in Lacy's body, I was grateful for that.

Discovering and tensing with shivers, grandpa looked all around but remained rooted to the toilet as she finished her business. With what would've been a rumbly lament but instead squeaked softly through Riona's childhood voice, grandpa begged, "I hope I didn't embarrass myself..."

"You're fine. Do you need me to flush for you or...h-help?"

She met my gaze, as I tested Lacy's most comfortable crouches to her level, and cocked her head. With her mouth open, as though she was surprised to see me there, she noted, "This is a dream." As Lacy had tried to push her words through the shape of sounds my body made, grandpa also endeavored to express his affectionate, confident, and warm tone through the childish limitations of Riona.

I opened my mouth to correct her but paused. Some tiny, internal irritant still clung to that notion, surmising I was asleep in Lacy's bed, woozy but myself. The vivid array of Lacy-ness that infused everything told me otherwise, but it wasn't one-hundred percent. I could let grandpa decide for himself, but what might he do if he considered everything consequence-free? At least he had deduced that using a toilet in a dream might create embarrassment when he woke up.

I wasn't prepared for this, any of this. Why did I have to care what sort of bananas some cute blond was searching for in a display? But I'd have to deal with it, prepared or not.

"You think this is a dream?"

Her legs fussed as she adjusted the towel. "Of course. Unless I became my daughter. That, obviously, wouldn't happen. But why am I dreaming of this?" She set to work it out as much as those television mysteries.

"Are you going to stay here?"

Again, she looked on me with dawning surprise that I was still around. "Oh! I suppose I should get up. It's no fun to just stay on the toilet, especially in a dream."

I advanced to help her clean up but she took care of herself, even though whatever she had lost wasn't evident in the bowl or any other way.

She wrapped the towel around herself and stated, "Riona wanted to be a big girl at this age. Although..." Her eyes dipped and searched before amending, "Well, I don't have to be exactly like her in a dream if I can help it."

To demonstrate this, she did as much as her tiptoes and rolling up those absurd sleeves could manage for the sink but let me turn on the water for her and adjust it when it was too hot for her delicate skin. She dabbed her face and wiped it with a towel as she regarded the little girl showing over the counter.

"Geez-o-Pete! I look just like her. It's so vivid. And I brushed her hair like this so many times...I just...I..." Little touches of wet sparkle glinted off her tiny, green-toned eyes.

Using the countertop to lower Lacy's body, I asked what was wrong. This time, she seemed used to the notion I was going to be some part of her dream she couldn't get rid of. Taking a breath all through her slight, nearly-frail body, she answered, "I miss my happy little girl...but she. But I...do you have something I can wear?" She weathered a rush of tears before wiping them on her sleeves.

I valued grandpa's practicality. It was a rock compared with the turbulent crush of dad's anger and worrying about when Lacy might be red-faced from another fight with her mom. Even filtered through his bitter daughter, it couldn't be dimmed. But, downstairs, my beloved grandmother could be wearing the childish mask of my dad across the kindness of her spirit.

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Was I ready for that? Could Lacy be ready to see her mother so young and tempered by grandfather's grace? She couldn't see him in the messy poncho drape of an old man's shirt and an awkwardly-wrapped towel.

The nearest option was to take her to the attic for something old and dusty sifted from the remaining boxes of old clothes. At least the striped-pink glove that started all this for him would be a perfect fit. The only other alternative was Lacy's room. A box of Lacy's childhood clothes had once been a permanent fixture in an old, worn box in the storage area at the top of the closet.

Holding my little grandfather by her tiny fingers, I sat her on Lacy's bed with as much cover as she could wrap herself in. She dipped her head against the material and watched me hunt for clothes.

Navigating Lacy's closet for myself had been a nightmare, but at least I knew a range to aim for. That excluded a lot of the clothes that could conceivably fit Lacy...and Lacy's recent body shape. It wasn't as though little Riona had me on a clock, but I wanted to have something for her without delay.

At last, I tracked down the box at the very back of the closet, nearly on the floor. I picked out a county fair commemorative top and a bright blue sweater with the Rocky Mountains printed on the front, copied from a painting. Pink socks and drawstring, gray fleece pants finished the ensemble.

The curious thing was I expected there to be a foul aroma of age about the set, but it actually smelled quite pleasant and like it had been washed relatively recently, maybe a few weeks or months ago. At least, it was something for her to wear.

It wasn't a perfect fit. Riona was smaller than Lacy for much of her childhood, so it was like getting an older sibling's clothes to grow into but she was decent, even though I needed to cinch the drawstring on the pants and tie them to keep them up.

Adjusting her clothes and freeing her curtain hair from the top, grandpa said calmly, "Thank you, sweetie. Do you have anything for this hair?"

Lacy had stuff for hair, the quarantine of her locks into that tight pendulum was evidence enough. And, as far as grandpa knew, I was Lacy. So, I had to do my best. Fortunately, it didn't take more than three drawers to discover what I needed. I just had no idea where to start, so I grabbed what I could, threw on a little stretchy string thing to keep it out of her eyes, and promised, "I'll take care of it in a minute, but I'm really worried about grandma. We need to go check on her."

Her eyes widening, she leaned forward and desperately asked, "What happened to Lucy? Is she alright?"

I started by assuring her that she was fine, even though I had zero support for that as fact. She seemed to recognize my fib as well, keeping her thin mouth tight and eyes compressed into creases beyond her years.

Despite her youth, I could still sense the age of her behind those eyes. No matter if this was a dream or not, if his ceaseless love of a half-century was in trouble, I knew he would never want to be anywhere but at her side.

I led the way down the stairs, but she nearly pushed me aside.

"Lucy!" She called out, not flinching from the soft, childish tone of her cry. It didn't take long to discover voices in the master bedroom. Lacy-as-me unlocked it and soon presented a shy, nervous little boy with what would one day grow out into my father's fierce features.

As I anticipated, all the fury was strained through a soft, younger filter with a full measure of my grandmother's gazes of concern twisting his mouth and eyebrows in unnaturally welcoming ways. He wore a pale dressing gown with a brown, knit sweater and rope-tightened trousers hanging off his boyish shape.

He was taller than the girl beside me by a head, despite the fact they were biologically close in age. It was a perversion of reality as my father dwarfed Riona with several years of a head start.

Lacy's expression tightened with the impulse of fear over the childish features of her mother. I wondered if her own face betrayed my feelings about dad in turn. Wearing uncharacteristic confusion, grandpa looked to me and asked, "Why is Mark here? Where is Lucy?"

Stepping through the threshold, the child with my father's face pointed at grandpa and asked, "I'm not...I'm not sure what's going on but...why do you look like my daughter? Who are you?"

My brain felt like a computer working overtime with puffs of dark, billowing smoke. I loathed to call grandpa "Riona", even if it was right. And I didn't even want to touch the mixture of emotions with the kindest member of my family wearing the young version of the angriest. And I needed to play along with pretending this was a dream for my grandfather and heaven-knows how grandma responded to this.

A look at Lacy with my features told me she was at about the same point, even more like a piece of taffy stretched into both a familiar and unfamiliar shape, thinned out in so many ways.

Grandpa gave his full name in answer, with a firm emphasis on each word, despite his childish voice. Mercifully, grandma knew him well enough not to contest. She approached and softly turned over his name again, "Oh, Orson. My dear, Orson. What happened to you? Why do you look like our Riona?..."

Straightening out her clothes with as much dignity as possible, our grandfather resolved, "Because this is a most peculiar dream I seem to be having. And still having."

My grandma blinked rapidly with my father's cold, silvery eyes infused with her warmth. Reaching out, he grasped his younger sister's/her husband's dainty arm and swiftly pinched a bit near the wrist. The startled, pained squeak she gave nearly made my ears ring.

"Why did you do that?!" The flare of accusation almost felt like scolding a sibling.

Pinching his own skin much harder, the little boy explained, "I tried it. I can feel it...and everything. I tried to wake up. And John is just like John." The kid gestured to Lacy, as I gave her a look.

I watched Riona's eyes flick between Mark's face and the two of us with unmoored fear drifting on the shoals of sudden uncertainty.