I need my hair braided up tight before I go to bed, and I try to do it myself, but every time I do my hair falls all loose and out of the braid. It has to be tight for what I’m going to do.
I tap lightly on Grandpa’s bedroom door with my hair down long over my shoulders “Grandpa?” I ask. “Will you braid my hair?”
I’m waiting for him to ask why I need it done now so late at night and not before school in the morning like I always do, but he just waves me in and tells me to stand in front of the mirror.
My heart’s beating fast and I don’t know if it’s because at any moment I’m expecting Grandpa to see right through me, right into my whole plan, or if it’s because he doesn’t even notice anything out of the ordinary.
He combs my hair with his fingers and parts it down the middle, then gathers the right side, separating it into three pieces.
“Tight, Grandpa.”
He smiles at me in the mirror and crosses the groups of hair over each other and pulls them tight to my scalp. Tears burn behind my eyes, but it also feels good to have it pulled tight and intertwined like nothing could get between the strands to loosen it up and make it fall apart.
I hand him a rubber band and he wraps it around the bottom of the first braid. Then he braids the left side, crossing the hair over and over and pulling it tight to my scalp.
“Thanks,” I say. And before I close his bedroom door I stick my head back in and say, “Hey, Grandpa. Everything’s going to be OK.”
I want to say what I always say, that I’ll see him in the morning, first thing. But I don’t want to lie to Grandpa.
I’m waiting for him to remind me about Grace and Harold coming over with doughnuts before school, but he just nods and smiles. “Sleep well, Robbie.” And I wonder if he remembers.
“You too, Grandpa.”
Wearing my outdoor clothes in bed feels weird. My jeans keep twisting around all wrong and I can’t get comfortable. It’s dark and the wind is whooshing past my window. I’m going over the plan in my head and looking at my hiking pack leaned against the far wall. It already has my sleeping bag in it so it kind of stands up on its own. I repeat the plan again and again, step by step, in my head to keep me awake until I hear Grandpa’s snores through the wall.
When the alarm on my watch beeps four thirty a.m. I blink my eyes fast and let them adjust to the dark. That was part of the plan so I don’t fumble around and wake up Grandpa. Then I push off my blanket, hoist the pack over my right shoulder, and tiptoe through the hall and downstairs. I lean my pack against the front door and tiptoe to the kitchen.
The cupboards squeak even when I open them slowly to feel for the loaf of bread. A slant of light shoots across the floor from the refrigerator as I reach in for the cheese slices. I make a sandwich and wrap it tight in plastic wrap like Grandpa taught me so the cheese doesn’t slide around and off the bread. Then I turn on the water just enough that it’s barely leaking out of the faucet to fill my water bottle as quietly as I can.
I grab the first-aid kit from the hall closet because Grandpa says you never go into the woods without it and stuff it in the pack on top of my sleeping bag. When I hoist the pack up this time, it feels way heavier than I thought it would. But I can carry it.
I adjust my headlamp around my head and pull on my boots, and just when I’m about to turn the doorknob I hear Grandpa cough and shift on his old mattress upstairs. Then I imagine him waking up and not knowing where he is or where I am and maybe packing his suitcase again and wandering off. And I won’t be here to follow him and find him and bring him back home.
But I can’t be here when Grace shows up to tell me her plan and take me away. And she’ll be here soon. If I just disappear for the morning, disappear from Grace and the Department for Children and Families, I can come back and get Grandpa and then we can make our own plan.
Grandpa needs me with him. I’m his right hand.
The light on my watch glows 4:58. Two hours until Grace will be pounding on our door with doughnuts. I have to go.
I turn the knob quietly, but I just can’t push the door open and run. I try again to get the guts, but I can’t. I can’t leave Grandpa here with no one listening for his breathing and snores through the wall.
I need a new plan.
When I inch the pack off my shoulders, it hits the floor with a thud. “Crap!” I whisper and slap my hand over my mouth as I tiptoe back to the kitchen.
This time I make a sandwich with an extra slice of cheese and slather it with mayonnaise and mustard the way Grandpa likes. The other water bottles are out in the shed, so I fill Grandpa’s soup thermos with water, even though it’s heavy and will probably kill my shoulders in the pack. But we’ll need it. And I can carry it. I grab the blanket off the back of the couch and stuff that in too.
Tiptoeing back up the stairs makes me nervous. I don’t want to startle Grandpa because it’s still dark and early and his wires will be all crossed and confused.
I knock softly on his bedroom door but he keeps on snoring. I knock a little louder and walk in. He snorts and rolls over. “What? What? Who is it?”
“It’s me, Grandpa. It’s Robbie.”
“What?” He sits up on the edge of his bed and shakes his head, but he doesn’t shake anything into place because he’s calling me Eddie and wondering if I’m going to come to Vermont. “Eddie, Eddie,” he pleads. “Come stay with me in Vermont until the baby’s born.”
“Grandpa, it’s Robinson.” I take his hand and help him stand up. I want to remind him that my mom died so he’ll snap out of it and stop calling me Eddie and go back to being normal. But I don’t want to make him sad, so I just forget about it. “It’s time to go,” I say. “Come with me.”
I pass him his clothes and he slouches into his shirt and pulls his pants up over his hips. “I’ll teach you how to sugar,” he says, “if you come.”
“I know how to sugar, Grandpa. You taught me. Remember?”
He rubs the grooves on his forehead and pats me on the shoulder. “Eddie. I’m so glad you came. I can’t wait to be a grandpa.”
Then I realize he’s talking about me. And for as many times as I’ve asked him to tell me what happened to my mom, it feels weird and wrong and a little scary having him talk about her now, when his memory is so tired.
He holds me tight and whispers in my ear, “I wanted to be there when you were growing up, Eddie.” Then he squeezes me tighter in the hug and says, “But you’re here now and I’m going to be the best damn grandpa in the world.” Then he rubs my belly over my sweatshirt and jacket.
“You are,” I tell him. “You are the best grandpa in the world.” He nods his head and loosens his hug.
“Ready?” I ask and grab a pair of thick socks from his drawer. I put his hand on my shoulder to lead him downstairs to the front door.
“Ready,” he says. His voice is gruff and sounds stale, like he hasn’t cleared the morning out of it yet.
That’s how his memory is too. It’s clear by the time the sun comes up for breakfast and he’s braiding my hair before school, but it clouds up again when it gets dark and it’s time to make dinner and go to bed.
But we can’t wait for the sun to rise and his memory to clear. We have to get out of here now. Then we’ll be OK and Grandpa can help me think about what we’ll do next.
“You’re going to need your flannel and a jacket too, Grandpa.”
I take his flannel from the hook, but when I turn back around he has one bare foot in his boot and he’s trying to pull his sock over the muddy toe.
“Socks first, Grandpa,” I remind him. “Socks, then boots.” It makes me mad and sad again at the same time that he doesn’t know that. How can he forget the simplest things? All the things he taught me when I was a little kid. He’s just staring back at me like he doesn’t understand, so I reach over and start unlacing his boot. “Socks first.”
“Stop it,” he huffs. “Stop it, dammit. I can do it.”
His eyes are those deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes, and I just want him to snap out of it and go back to being the grandpa who makes sense, because he scares me when he’s like this. But we have to get out of here before Grace from the Department for Children and Families comes to take me away.