On Pointe (16 page)

I need to join the others.

We're starting our meeting.

Did you want to join—

No? Well, that's okay, dear.

I'll look forward to chatting with you

another time.”

I slip away to the bathroom

and splash cold water on my face.

My intestines are braided in knots.

I swallow hard to keep my stomach down.

Why did Grandpa ever say all that stuff?

No way I'm a dancer.

What do I do every day?

Stuff around the house.

Stuff for Grandpa.

I'm a

maid-gardener-nurse.

What's Rosella doing every day?

Dancing in City Ballet.

Taking a moment

to puke

after class.

Taking a break

in the coffee shop

to laugh at people

who didn't make it.

Bottom line: dancing.

She's a dancer.

What about Elton?

Dancing in the company.

He does have to work in the bookstore.

But big deal.

That's not like babysitting your Grandpa.

Elton probably doesn't even think

of me anymore.

Why would he?

He's busy being a dancer.

Okay.

Get a grip.

It's one old lady.

Who cares what she thinks?

No big deal.

I'm moving on

from ballet,

from my old apartment,

from my old school,

from so-called friends.

I'm moving on.

I just can't think of

where to go.

I peek around the corner.

What's a prayer meeting like anyway?

Ballet lady has her back to me.

That's good.

Everyone's so smiley

and chatty.

Most of them are pretty old

like Grandpa.

Whoa.

The one lady with cat eyeglasses

is dabbing Grandpa's handkerchief

to his mouth.

That's pretty nice.

Huh.

They seem to really like him.

Even though he's so different now.

That one guy, Bruce,

is reading from a Bible.

Now they are talking about

what to pray for.

One man

says to pray for Grandpa.

That's nice.

Now they are praying.

And praying.

And praying.

Done finally.

What's with the harmonica?

Oh. Hymns.

Huh. They don't sound half bad

if you like that kind of music.

Grandpa sure seems to like it,

the way he's rocking and smiling.

Everyone's lining up

to shake his left hand

or give him a hug.

So that's a prayer meeting.

It doesn't seem

all that strange.

“What an interesting painting.”

Bruce clips his pen

into his shirt pocket.

He peers more closely

at the picture by the door.

“Do you know the story behind it, Clare?”

“Sure.

Grandpa's told me tons

of times. It's the land his grandfather owned

before he came to America.

It's back in Switzerland.”

“How nice. It's delightful.

Well, I'd best be off.”

I shut the door behind him.

I'm glad I remembered the story

about the painting.

Sure, Mom might have known about it too,

but there's probably stuff she doesn't know.

Things Grandpa only told me.

I turn around and bump into his wheelchair.

He reaches up

for my hand.

I remembered about the painting.

But what about other stories

he never got to tell?

Those I'll never get to hear.

Dad suddenly appears

and pushes Grandpa to the window.

“You can wave

as your friends leave, Lawrence,” he says.

“Clare, come help

with dinner,” Mom calls from the kitchen.

“So, what did you think of that?” she asks.

“Seriously.”

“It seemed nice enough, I guess.”

She passes me lettuce and tomatoes.

“Would you work on the salad?

Fix a big one.

I'm really hungry.”

“Sure.” I get out a paring knife.

“Well, I hope that's sufficient for him,” she says.

“That's all I can say, Clare. Really.”

“What do you mean?”

She pounds the cube steak with a mallet.

“I hope hosting

the prayer meeting once a month

is enough for Dad.

We don't want to have to take him

to church every week.”

The knife breaks through the thin tomato skin.

Seeds spill out along the blade.

“But that's really important to Grandpa.”

“I know it is.” She slams the steak.

“But we all need to give in a little, Clare.

You, your father, and I

don't need to join the church.

I had enough in my childhood.”

“Yeah. But he looked so happy.

Mom, I could push him there.

I wouldn't mind.

It's only a couple blocks.”

Bam. Bam.

“It's not convenient for us.

We need some normalcy too.”

Convenient for
us?
What about Grandpa?

He's already giving up

his book club and Bible study.

I mince the tomato into tiny bits.

Mom lies down on the couch.

“Moving Dad around is exhausting.”

“Yeah, but he's

even more tired

with the excitement of coming home

and the prayer meeting.”

“You're right, Clare.”

I flop on the floor

and stretch into a split.

Oh, that feels great.

My muscles are already tight

from not taking class.

Mom looks over

and raises an eyebrow.

“That's strange to see.”

What am I doing?

I pull my legs in

and cross them.

“What?”

“You doing ballet.”

“I wasn't. I just wasn't thinking

for a minute.”

I'm

an idiot.

“I know things have been

completely hectic,” says Mom.

Here we go.

“But have you given any thought

to yourself, honey?”

“Not really. We've been too busy.”

“I can give you that.

But

are you sleeping well,

having bad dreams,

missing classes—”

“I'm fine, Mom.”

“Are you—”

“Fine.”

“Okay. I only want you to know

I'm here for you.”

There's no doubt about that.

Sometimes I don't want to talk about

every little thing.

Even if it was okay

talking to her about the audition.

Sometimes

it's nice to keep a bit to yourself.

Stuff maybe you haven't even figured out yet.

Be your own person that way.

I can't explain that

to her.

She's already talking again.

“It was such a big dream,

and now with Dad's stroke,

I don't want to neglect you, sweetheart.”

“I'm fine.”

She humphs.

“Okay, Clare.

If you say so.

I
may not be fine.

Not that anyone's asked.

I may be worn down

to a bloody nub,

but I'm glad

you

are fine.”

She crosses her arms.

Someone's cranky tonight . . . .

“That shower chair worked well.

I got him washed,

dressed, and into bed.” Dad

collapses at the end of the couch.

Mom plops her feet onto his lap.

“Thanks, Dwight.

Being a man,

Dad's got to be more comfortable

with you showering him than me.”

“I hope it saves some of his dignity.”

“Yes.” Mom covers her eyes

with her arm. “I can't get over

how much work this is.

We are wiped out after one day.

But everything will be easier

when we get assistance.

We should have a worker

by midweek, right?”

“Right.”

Mom sighs. “If the daily routine is this hard,

imagine what an undertaking it will be

to get him to physical therapy next week.

We definitely need help.”

“Will the worker be a man, Dad?”

“No, I think the service is sending a woman.”

“That's not going to feel so great

to Grandpa.”

“Well,” says Mom, “we'll try to make Dad

feel comfortable when we can.

Like your dad showering him.

But we need help, Clare.

Anything, from anyone,

at this point

will be appreciated.”

“Okay already,” I say.

Dad pokes my leg

and massages Mom's foot.

“Sounds like we could all use

some extra sleep,” he says.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “It's crab city around here.”

Mom gives me a look.

I get up

and hug the bloody nub anyway, then Dad.

Poor Grandpa.

What man

would want some strange woman

to help him in the bathroom

and stuff?

Who would want anyone to help them

in the bathroom and stuff?

I step into the tub.

Huh. My feet don't burn now.

I sit down and prop them up on the wall.

Wow. All the blisters are healing over.

My feet still look gross,

but mostly they're bumpy, red, and callused.

That's amazing.

I dunk them back underwater.

Things heal fast.

Well,

some things.

Other things never get better.

Grandpa's paralyzed side of his body

still grosses me out.

It's like he's not even in that dead part.

I don't like to touch the pasty skin.

What's it feel like to him?

What's it feel like

not to be able to feel?

I slide my head underwater.

I can't imagine.

Grandpa squints in the morning sun.

Mom tucks a blanket on his lap

and turns to me.

“I'll register you at the school,

pick up Dad's medications,

and be back before you know it.”

Mom drops her keys on the sidewalk.

I bend down and hand them to her.

“Are you sure,

absolutely sure

you'll be fine?” she asks.

“Yeah, Mom. Trust me.

I can be responsible.”

Grandpa grunts and waves to her.

“See? He agrees.” I urge her toward

the car. “Dad took him to the bathroom

before he left. You'll be back

before he needs to go again.

I'm going to wheel him around the block.

Maybe stop for tea at the coffee shop.”

“That sounds like too much, Clare.”

“Mom, I pushed him around the hospital

a lot. It won't be any different.”

“All right. But take some cash.”

She presses money into my hand.

“Go, Mom.”

“Okay, okay.”

Finally

she gets in the car

and drives away.

She leaves me alone

with Grandpa.

I lean into the chair.

Grandpa's wheels bump over the roots

breaking through the sidewalk.

He grips the chair arm

with his good hand.

“It's okay, Grandpa. I've got you.”

This is way harder

than going over smooth hospital floors.

I roll him to the corner and wait for the light.

The cars slow and stop.

“Here we go.”

It's this stupid short light.

We have to hurry or we are going to be stuck

in the middle.

I push him across the street,

and he grunts and waves his arm.

“What? I can't stop in the street

and figure out what you're saying, Grandpa.”

“Gruggrrr.”

I lean into the chair and push him up the incline

onto the opposite sidewalk.

“What is it, Grandpa?”

He points to the conservatory,

points at me,

and bangs the armrest.

The conservatory.

“Yeah, I see it. So?”

He points at me again,

then at the building.

“Come on, Grandpa.

Let's go.

He bangs the armrest once more,

but stops grunting.

He never would have done all that

before the stroke.

Even his personality is different.

And right now,

I don't like it.

There's a break in the traffic,

and music streams out the barre room window

above us.

Grandpa sways his head.

I focus on pushing him around the people

walking so easily on the sidewalk.

It's hard to get from one place to another

without running into or over someone.

I bump into a businessman.

He gives me an angry look.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He hurries off.

Why does everything

have to be so hard?

The bookstore

is straight across the street.

I wheel Grandpa as fast as I can.

Don't look.

Don't look.

I do.

Elton isn't at the register.

It's some lady with a ponytail.

I shouldn't have looked,

and then I could have kept pretending

he was there.

Close by.

“Clare!”

Oh, great.

It's Devin.

“Hi, Clare.

How are you doing?

I'm so sorry you didn't make it.

And who is this?

Your grandpa?

Hello!