• • • • •
I’m sitting on her bed, watching Grandma twist her thumbs around each other. The heat wave has been continuing. It’s only the last week of June, and we’ve already had five straight days of 100 degrees. I leave Grandma’s blinds down today so that it can stay somewhat cool in her cave.
Her clock is two minutes behind today. “Can’t your clock make up its mind?” I ask my grandma. But she’s in a different mood when the blinds are drawn. She’s not exactly more morose, but more subdued, which is kind of hard to picture, since she doesn’t do much as it is.
The air ducts in the nursing home rattle, and cool air starts flowing into the cave. I hear a collective sigh throughout the building.
* * *
Her house was built by my grandpa, Harold, when he was a young man. He died in that house. She stayed until she could stay no longer. The floor plan was simple but functional. The kitchen was large—designed for when people spent a lot of time cooking, cleaning, and having meals together. At least that’s what my grandma said.
She lived only four blocks away. She used to be my babysitter when my dad was at work and my mom was unable to care for me.
I was standing on a footstool, and my grandma leaned over my shoulder. “Okay. Take this roller and push down and roll out like this. Then do that to each side.”
She was making a pie and had leftover crust—homemade, not from a box—that she let me practice with. We would put some mini pies into the cupcake tray. I’d make those ones. Proudly.
She handed me the roller. Our hands and chests were covered in flour. Or at least mine were.
I pushed and rolled. I tore the crust and wanted to cry.
She smiled kindly. “Whoops. It’s all right. It’s just crust. Let’s try again, Charlie.” She grabbed it and rolled it back into a ball with some water.
I tried again and again. And I finally managed to make a flat, non-holed, mini piecrust.
“Wonderful. Okay. Now we take it and place it in the tray like this.” I watched her carefully maneuver the crust into a tin tray. I tried and succeeded with my mini crust on the first try. “You’re getting good at this.”
My face lit up.
* * *
Susan pokes her head in and says, “Hi, Charlie. Feels like forever since I’ve seen you.”
I have an idea about getting Grandma out of her cave for a bit.
“Hey, Susan? How is someone able to get a patient to leave for a day?”
* * *
A family member (adult) has to fill out and sign a form in order to release a patient (for up to four hours) from the retirement home, so I find myself waiting for my dad at home. He’ll be happy that I’m not out chasing UFOs.
He comes in the back door, and I’m in the kitchen with my phone, texting Seth. He sent me a couple of edited pictures that he took in Seattle. I’m certain he is going to be a famous photographer one day.
“What is this?” my dad says.
I look around. “What?”
“You’re in the kitchen when I get home. What did you do?”
“Nothing. But . . . I have a question.” I tell him my plan, and he pops open a beer.
He interrupts me. “You should’ve come bowling tonight. Trey was asking about you. He’s a nice boy.”
I shake that nasty thought off. “Please, Dad? She needs to get out of there. Just for one day.”
“Absolutely not.” He takes a swig of beer and sets the can on the table.
“Why not?”
I don’t understand why he doesn’t want his mom around more. Or a dog. Or me, frankly.
“Because I already have plans for the Fourth of July, and they don’t include taking care of a woman who won’t know what’s going on anyway.”
“Plans?”
“Yeah, me and the guys are going fishing.”
“Well, can you sign the papers, and I’ll take her to watch the parade?”
My dad shakes his head. “Not a chance.” He turns away from me, letting me know that the conversation is done.
I huff. “Well, can we at least have Tickles stay with us?”
“You’re pushing on my last nerve, Charlie. Go do something.”
I huff more loudly and stomp out of the kitchen, saying, “As long as it’s a preapproved something, right?”
My dad doesn’t respond. I don’t even know if he really even heard me. And speaking of last nerves, his drinking is getting on mine. He always drank. From as far back as I can remember, he’d have a beer when he got home, but ever since his wife disappeared and his mother disappeared, just in a different way, he’s been drinking more.
Would my dad prefer that I drink instead of search for UFOs?