The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma (23 page)

“Oh, no, it's not, really. It's silly, really. I'm lucky it hasn't gotten any worse.”

She extends her leg and rolls up her pants. It's a firm nylon brace. It's hard to believe I haven't noticed it until now, the last night of our vacation. She's holding her leg straight out and up off the floor. I grab the stool from under my own heavy leg.

“Here, you should have had this all along. How's it feeling?”

“Fine. Much better today. There's definitely an improvement. I'll need all my parts working for next week.”

“How come?”

“I've agreed to be part of an art installation. It sounds quite interesting.”

“What is it?”

“A French artist is putting together an exhibit called
Resistance
. He's going to take photos of body parts of several veterans from the war. He's going to blow each picture up very big and display it alongside a very small picture of the face of the same vet taken around the time of the war.”

“That does sound cool. Do you know what body part he'll take?”

“No, but I don't really care. Whatever he suggests. I imagine some will have an idea of what they want. I bet some won't want to show certain parts. Maybe I'll suggest my legs or feet; he probably won't have many of those. Old feet aren't pretty.”

We talk some more about the installation and other commitments Grandma has for the coming weeks. There are many. She has invitations to dinners and parties; her weekly golf games are starting up soon. There's so much she's still engaged in, so much she still thinks about.

As our glasses empty, we start to yawn. Grandma first and then me. We ignore the yawns initially, hiding them with our hands.

“I guess it's that time again,” says Grandma over the music. “But what a wonderful dinner. And a wonderful day. Thank you.”

“No, thank you, Grandma. You treated. Again.”

“I seem to talk more with you than with anyone. I'm sorry for going on and on. But it's been so nice to just reminisce this week. To think about old times. It's amazing what we can remember from so long ago.”

“I like our chats,” I say. “It's good to talk about these things. It's good for me.”

“Well, I'm going to take my reading up to bed.”

She smiles again and rocks herself in her seat three or four times. She needs to build this momentum to stand. I rise to help but she's up before I can give her my hand. She takes it anyway and pulls me in for a hug. I have to bend down low to accept it. I can feel her hand lightly tapping my shoulder blade, over and over.

“Thanks,” she says again. At the door, she turns back. “What was the wine we had tonight?”

“Beaujolais.”

“Oh, right. And what was that drink called again?”

“Southern Comfort,” I say, “with lime juice.”

“Right, Southern Comfort,” she says. “If you're going to bed, too, then I'll get the lights out here.”

“Yup, I'll be headed off soon.”

“Goodnight.”

“Nighty-night.”

I watch her move gingerly over to the lamp. She twists the switch three times in the wrong direction,
click-click-click
, before reversing it,
click
. The room is dark.

“I've had such a wonderful week. I really have,” I hear from the hall. “I've been thinking about so many things.”

“Me, too. Have a good sleep, Grandma.”

“You know you don't have to say that,” she says. “I always do.”

FRIDAY

7:55 a.m.

I WAKE EFFORTLESSLY
,
minutes before my alarm. I have a stretch, pointing my toes and hands in opposite directions. Despite a dry mouth that gives the impression I nibbled on a late-night bowl of hamster food, I feel well rested and alert. I don't linger in the sheets, delaying the compulsory, as I do most mornings. I'm up. I'm dressed.

I slept heavily. It was one of those nights that seemed to last for only a minute or two. Sometimes it's possible to be aware of time even while asleep. Not last night. I have only an obscure recollection of getting up off the couch and finding my way to bed in the dark. Unusually for me, I went straight to sleep. The longer the night feels, the worse the sleep. This was a good sleep, a great one. The night flew by.

It's in this state, feeling fresh, still basking in post-sleep gusto, that I find Grandma already in the kitchen. I can only see half of her, behind the table. It's her feet, toes pointing upward, that I see first. Her inert legs are next.

Grandma's on the floor. She's flat on her back.

I freeze a few feet from the threshold. My pulse quickens to a higher gear. Most people would rush in right at this moment. I'm still. What I am going to find? I have to go in. She might need help. She might be hurt. I walk skittishly into the kitchen and around the table, which is distorting my view.

“Good morning,” she says, with a beaming grin. Her face appears restored and comfortable; gone is the redness from last night. “How did you sleep?”

I exhale in relief, choking on the breath. “I actually slept really great.”

“Oh, good. Happy to hear it. I thought you might.”

“Grandma, what are you doing on the floor?” I ask.

“I was feeling better this morning. I think the worst of my cold is done. So I just thought I'd do some exercises and stretching. I guess it probably looks silly. I often do this at home. I've been feeling lazy since I've been here.”

She pulls one leg into her chest as far as she can. She holds it there. Then brings the other leg, the one with the bad knee, up beside it. She can't get it quite as far. Beside her on the floor I notice a ball of bedsheets.

“But isn't the floor hard? Doesn't it hurt your back?”

“No, I like the wood floor. It's good for my back.”

The spare bed has probably been murderous on her back. It is on mine. I should have switched beds. I should have taken the spare bed myself. But she would have insisted I stay in my own room. It's delusional to think otherwise. Still, I could have at least suggested it.

“I hope it's not the damn bed that's hurt your back.”

“No, of course not, my back is fine. I enjoy doing these exercises. It's good for me.”

I watch her release one leg, then the other. She just lies there on the floor. She puts her arms back behind her head and closes her eyes.

“How about a little breakfast, then, when you're done.”

“Thanks, but I already had some, dear. I was up early. And I stripped the bed.” She motions toward the ball of sheets beside her.

I thought I was up early?

I pull out one of the chairs from the table and flop down. Grandma continues her stretching. In the reflection in the window I can see my own distended tummy. I slap my belly twice and roll my neck on my shoulders, joining in on the morning calisthenics. The rain was supposed to have stopped. It hasn't. Not even for our last day. It's grey and raining and windy and generally shitty, like it's been for most of the past four days.

“Could you have some coffee, then? I'm going to make some.”

“Coffee would be great.”

As I prepare our brew, Grandma slowly rises up off the floor. It's a struggle. I want to ask if she needs any help, but I know by now she'd rather do it on her own, even if it takes longer.

“I was thinking about our dinner last night before I fell asleep,” she says when she's up and seated at the table. “It was delicious, Iain. I can't believe how well we've eaten. I'm going to try and make that salad when I get home. I wrote down the recipe, right?”

“Yeah, you did. You had a little piece of paper with you. I think it's here somewhere.”

I start shuffling through the newspapers, magazines, and notepaper scattered on the table beside the phone. I'm not convinced I'm going to find anything. “Here, I think this is it.” I try not to sound too surprised. I hold up a white sticky note with what appears to be her handwriting. It's tricky to decipher. The writing, although neat and orderly, is small and unsteady. It doesn't look like a recipe. It's definitely her writing, though. “Maybe this isn't it.”

“May I see?”

I pass the paper to Grandma. She accepts it and holds it up close to her face, squinting at her own writing. “No, this isn't the recipe. I'm not sure what . . . Oh, I know what this is.” She looks up, giggles, then turns back to the note. “It's mine, all right.”

“What is it?”

“It's just a little diary, I guess. I decided on Tuesday I should start writing down what we've been doing. I knew if I didn't, I'd forget it. And some of it I want to remember.”

I'm unexpectedly touched by this development. She's been keeping her own travelogue of our road trip — our road trip without a road, or a trip. On scrap paper. In faint pencil. I tell her I've had the same idea, that I've been doing the same thing. “I've been keeping some notes, too.”

“I'll be able to read it over every now and then. It'll be nice to have.”

I stand up and walk toward the sink. I've had the ingredients for peanut butter cookies sitting on the counter for more than a week. I was going to have the cookies ready for when Grandma arrived. That way my place would smell like fresh baking when we stepped inside. It never happened. I've been estranged from any desire to bake since the last time I baked a pie. It was also my first time, and the insides of the pecan filling came out like soup. I ate it (with a spoon) but wouldn't have wanted to serve it to anyone else. I know cookies are easier but I just couldn't do it. Now would have been a good time to offer Grandma a homemade cookie.

“Would you like to nibble on something with your coffee, Grandma?”

“No, dear. I think I'll wait until lunch.”

WHEN IT COMES
to weekday lunch in downtown Kingston, there are several choices. There are delis, lots of sushi, pizza. There are homemade takeout meals at a small grocery on Barrie Street. But when I feel like spending more money than I should, the bakery on Princess Street is nonpareil. The combination of fresh ingredients, extensive choice, and friendly service equates to an eternally packed interior and the diametric opposite of my kitchen.

The clientele are a blend of businesspeople, post-boomer artisans, grad students, and elderly retirees. The sum is an undissolved potion of affluent bread-and-soup-lovers. Grandma asked about the bakery when she saw it from the café, so I felt like I should take her to see it.

Walking along Princess Street today, what's noticeable is some of the empty buildings where there used to be stores. Along with the Starbucks, two burger joints, a shoe store, a dollar store, a chain drug store, a natural foods store, a cellphone retailer, and a couple of clothing stores, I count three empty buildings with paper half-covering their windows.

We pass a place where I used to buy books. It was called the Book Market. Someone has literally
X
-ed out the word
Book
and scrawled
Art
above it. I guess it's now the Art Market. A number of the storefronts are festooned with flashy reminders of low prices and great deals. Grandma comments on the shoe store and wonders if it's new. It's not. I tell her new stores downtown have had a rough go lately and there are fewer and fewer new anythings.

We walk through the bakery's door to the unmistakable scent of fresh sourdough. I like it here but am already ruing the decision. I know she loves a satisfying soup-and-sammy lunch, but the bakery is more hectic than I thought it would be. Maybe I should have picked another place. We could have just grabbed takeout somewhere and eaten in my car. There's an urgency built into the glass display here. Everyone but us has things to do and places to go. All are in a hurry. Even the old people and lackadaisical students are in a hurry to get their lunches and go. The staff are extremely friendly and helpful but are taught to trump congeniality with efficiency. Most days I'm fine with this, but today it adds another layer of unwanted intensity.

The guy beside me is probably a student, or he could be about to depart on a month-long trek through the Andes. His backpack is holding more belongings than I own. There are water bottles and keys and frying pans dangling off many large buckles. I've just caught a glimpse of his face. He looks like he hasn't just smoked
from
a bong but has smoked the whole thing, drunk the water, and eaten the bong, too. The whites of his eyes are the colour of canned salmon.

Grandma's waiting unassumingly, holding her purse over her left shoulder. To her right is an elderly woman in a rain hat. She has a piece of notepaper with her. She's reading a list of orders from her paper to one of the women behind the counter. Beside her is a standard-issue insurance salesman, or banker, or real estate agent — clean-shaven; dark suit; short, neatly combed and gelled salt-and-pepper hair. Apart from large-scale coastal oil spills, is there anything worse and more unsettling in our world than the use of cologne? Not the overuse, just the use. Doesn't it seem like an antiquated measure, useful perhaps if we didn't have access to three-dollar sticks of deodorant and warm running water? And soap. We don't smell that terrible, do we, that we need to spray these repulsive chemicals onto our necks and then stand in line at a deli counter trying to decide between roast beef and pastrami while discharging the powerfully synthetic pheromone of a Glade Plug-In?

“Do you know what you're going to get?” asks Grandma.

I'm flustered. I turn and look at her. I have to stop myself from asking if she wants to go somewhere else, away from other humans. There has to be a restaurant around here with good food. And no other customers. “No, not for sure, what about you?”

“I'm thinking of just getting some cheese. And maybe one of those fresh croissants.”

We've come at feeding time, but our goal should be to graze. There's a café in the back, and I suggest to Grandma we go back there and sit where we can eat slowly, without feeling rushed. It feels like the right place to go. We can eat our lunch at our own pace.

We find a square table for two beside a table for four. Most customers take their food out, so the café section is only a quarter full, at most.

I always try and decide what I want before I arrive. It's seemingly inevitable that I change my mind six or seven times before I place my order. And the split-second post-order is when I start to feel guilty for buying lunch at all. I should have just had peanut butter on toast at home.

Today I'm feeling rested and adventurous. I'm determined to make it a guilt-free lunch, for Grandma's sake. I want something I've never had. Maybe something open-faced or something with chorizo. The waiter drops off two coffees, water, and some fresh butter and bread and says he'll be back to take our orders.

“Looks pretty good, doesn't it?” I say.

“It does.”

For a while we snack on the bread and butter, not talking much. The waiter returns and takes our order. We're going to share a grilled cheese and a café salad with roasted pumpkin seeds. The food arrives promptly and has already been split in two. We stop to rest after I'm done almost half my plate; Grandma is only three bites into hers. She unwinds the scarf from her neck and sets it down on the empty seat beside her.

“This is what's nice about getting old, being somewhere like this.”

“Really?” I look around the café and back toward the busy bakery section.

“Everyone knows the bad parts about aging. We hear about them all the time. But I never could have guessed at any point in my life that I'd still be here, at this age, eating a green salad with pumpkin seeds with my grandson,” she says. “I've been thinking about this, how the more you age, the older you get, the more of the future you get to see.”

“I guess you're right,” I say.

Patrons from two other tables have finished and left. Besides us, there's only one other occupied table now, under the “Specials” chalkboard across the room. It's an elderly lady, sitting alone. She's eating a bowl of soup and reading the paper.

I've often heard the cliché about how childhood comes full circle. We're born helpless and dependent; we grow, we age, and we die helpless. There are strands connecting the two. A child needs my help carrying heavy things like bags; so does Grandma. But really, childhood and old age are distinct stages. Grandma is right.

No age is a destination, just a place we are actively travelling through. Childhood is lived intrinsically. Old age is felt more discerningly and often negatively. It's a place many of us don't get to visit, yet paradoxically a place easily taken for granted. Old age is often an assumption. We all think we'll get there. Lots of us don't. The part of being old that Grandma likes — being old.

“In the present, we often lose historical perspective,” she's saying. “We tend to look back at generations and think of how much we've progressed. We laugh at pictures of people smoking in planes. But what are we doing now that the next generation will find ridiculous . . . or destructive? By then it will seem so obvious. Am I making any sense?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I understand, you're right.”

“I guess what I mean is the future becomes the past pretty quickly.”

“So then the only constant is the present.”

“And when I think about it, I really can't believe that I'm still around. It doesn't make much sense to me,” she says. “George never would have believed it. We always thought I'd be the first to go.”