Two days after I break up with Dylan, Grandpa passes away.
It’s pretty horrific news and, understandably, Mum is a bit of a mess. Dad, Aaron and I all try to console her. Mum uses medical terms to describe what happened to him but from what I gather he had a heart attack during the night.
I don’t cry when Mum tells me, which makes me feel kind of heartless. But I am sad – I might not have seen him very often but he was still my Grandpa – I’m just trying to focus on how he’s probably better off in another life (assuming one exists). I mean, the Alzheimer’s had taken a strong grasp and he was starting to forget who we all were. But still, it sucks. A lot.
On the day we find out, Mum and Dad drive out to be with Grandma. I start thinking about how I’d feel if it were my dad who had passed. Admittedly, the circumstances are slightly different as my dad is half Grandpa’s age and the epitome of health (at least for a forty-something-year-old man). The idea of not having my dad around makes me want to cry forever.
I imagine Grandma trying to put on a brave face for when her daughters arrive, when she really just wants to cry her eyes out. She and Grandpa had been together for so many years and now he’s just gone. She’ll be one of those elderly people you see at the shops, eating by themselves. Elderly people eating alone always gives me a flush of sadness because the idea of reaching the final stages of life and having nobody left to share it with is a terrifying thought. I really hope I don’t outlive all my friends and family. I’m not sure I could cope.
I text Elliot and Sophie to tell them what’s happened and though they both offer to come over, I don’t want to see either of them. Instead, Aaron and I spend the whole day together, reminiscing about Grandpa.
‘Remember when he used to pretend to fish in the backyard?’
‘What about when he first got diagnosed and would put on Grandma’s dresses because he thought it was funny to exaggerate the disease?’
We go back and forth, trading Grandpa stories and laughing. Before his mind went, nobody could laugh at themselves the way he could. I always admired that.
In the evening Mum and Dad return home, bringing Grandma with them. She looks as though she’s only just stopped crying.
‘Hi Grandma,’ I say, kissing her cheek. ‘I’m really sorry and I hope you’re okay.’ I hope it sounds as sincere as I mean it to; I’m not sure I have the words to do it justice.
‘Quite, dear, thank you. I think we all realised it wasn’t far off, what with his health and all, but it still shakes you up,’ she says, a rhythmic crack in her voice. ‘I did think we had a bit more time …’
I hug her again because I have no idea what to say to that.
Aaron gives her a large canvas, a painting of Grandma with Grandpa. They’re standing, holding hands, smiling at each other, their feet entangled in colourful flowers. The sun’s rays are almost visible, warming their faces from the crystal sky; only a few fluffy clouds are in sight.
I honestly have no idea when Aaron found the time to do that.
Grandma has been on the brink of tears since she arrived but this gesture tips her over the edge and the tears flow freely.
‘Oh sorry, Grandma,’ says Aaron awkwardly. ‘I thought you’d like it …’
‘No, I love it,’ she says, grabbing him in a tight embrace. ‘It’s wonderful. So professional. You have a real talent. Lauren,’ she adds, turning on my mother, ‘you have raised two beautiful children and you should be very proud of them.’
Grandma will stay with us until the funeral, which will be in a week. Despite her protests, I insist she sleep in my bedroom. We don’t have a guestroom in our house and I argue that it’s much easier to sleep on a couch when you’re young.
That night, Elliot pops in to make sure I’m doing okay and to offer his condolences. Unfortunately, I forgot to tell him that I’m sleeping in the lounge, which leads to a slightly awkward encounter when he knocks on my window, almost scaring Grandma to death. After that he uses the front door for the first time in months.
After I’ve finished laughing at him and he’s headed home, I go up to my/Grandma’s room to apologise.
‘No, no, deary, it’s fine. Makes me miss the days of sneaking around to avoid motherly detection. He seems to be quite a catch.’
‘Oh yeah, he’s great,’ I say, sitting down on the bed. The idea of Grandma sneaking around with a boyfriend in her youth is a weird one. ‘But he isn’t my boyfriend.’
She smiles. ‘Of course. A charming young lady like you is bound to have millions of boys sneaking through her bedroom window.’
‘Just the one boy sneaking through; I just happen to not be dating him.’
She giggles and it’s strange to see because I always thought giggling was reserved for teenage girls and Luke.
‘What does the actual boyfriend think of this?’ she asks.
‘He isn’t around anymore.’ I tell her the story of my relationship with Dylan ending. She’s almost as easy to talk to as my dad. I wish she lived closer. Mum moved out here with Dad before I was born. I used to see Grandma a lot more when I was younger – until I was about five – but I don’t really remember that. Now we see each other only a few times a year but that usually means we have to catch up rather than have an actual conversation.
‘Well, it sounds like you made a wise decision. Remember not to judge yourself on the boys you pull. Did I use that phrase right? I’m a bit out of touch with the slang you all use these days.’
I laugh. ‘Very good, Grandma.’
Our talks become a nightly ritual. I like talking to Grandma and I think she likes talking to me. We don’t discuss boys again. Instead we talk mostly about literature. She brought with her a couple of the books I gave her for Christmas. She’s halfway through Gone Girl and she wants me to read Go Set a Watchman so we can talk about it.
I knew she liked to read but I didn’t know just how closely she read everything. She plucks books from my bookshelf and we discuss them all, books stretching from contemporary fiction to the American classics, even back to Shakespearean plays. None of my friends is particularly literary (not unintelligent, just not avid readers) and it’s refreshing to be able to discuss books with somebody who truly appreciates them.
Grandma gives me a new perspective on Stasiland – she used to know somebody who lived under the East German regime – and she laughs the whole time as I explain my Freudian reading of The Hunger Games. Freud’s theories are a joke but psychoanalytic readings are still hilarious. We discuss the significance of Holden’s hat in The Catcher in the Rye, whether the Stella Prize is a good idea or not (it absolutely is) and whether Snape is a good guy or a bad guy (Snape is the worst). I also have issues with Dumbledore as a person – he’s so manipulative! – but you don’t want to get me started on that …
This is one of the remarkable things about literature, though: everybody reads a slightly different story from the same text. Our discussions often last for hours and I’m worried we’ll run out of books to talk about. But Grandma reads as frequently as I do – perhaps more – and she has a head start of sixty-odd years.
I also think she likes the distraction from thinking about Grandpa.
We keep this routine up until the night before the funeral, when she packs up all of her things and goes to sleep early.
The funeral is at nine-thirty in Grandma and Grandpa’s home town, so we all get up early for the drive. It’s a long day but the service is beautiful. There are gorgeous flowers, heartfelt eulogies and lots of tears. Grandma thanks everyone for coming and we wait until everyone has left so we can drive her back to her house. Mum doesn’t say much all day.
We invite Grandma to stay with us for a bit longer and I’m a bit disappointed when she says no. She insists she has to get back into a routine to help herself grieve and move on. We stay with her for dinner and then begin the journey home.
I’m going to miss having Grandma around. She was only with us for a week and I’m so excited about sleeping in my bed again, but the house feels empty without her.
As soon as I get home, I head up to my bedroom and start reading Go Set a Watchman. I read the first line and immediately get the urge to ask Grandma what her all-time favourite opening paragraph is, but then I remember she’s not here anymore. Mine is the opening to The Bell Jar, for the record.
About halfway through chapter three, I put the book down for a break and two pieces of paper fall out of the dust cover. One is a note, written in Grandma’s impressive cursive.
Jen,
Just a little something to say thank you for this week. You’re a remarkable young woman and I’m really proud of you. Use it wisely – meaning ‘go crazy’. Do something for yourself. Not for your mum. Not for me. For yourself. Our little secret. Don’t let me down.
Grandma xx
The other piece of paper is a cheque. For five thousand dollars.