The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma (9 page)

“Did your pals notice?” Grandma asks, with the faintest of grins. I sense she wants to laugh at me outright. We've been together long enough now that she's probably abandoning the usual constraints of politeness.

“The first thing Felix asked when I got into the bedroom was, ‘Hey, what's that?' ‘What's what?' I answered. ‘That,' he repeated, pointing toward my exposed tummy. It looked like plastic underwear was sticking up an inch or so above my waistband. ‘What do you mean?' I asked. At this point, Grandma, I was honestly confused. I didn't know what he was asking about.”

“What was it?”

“Felix reached his fingers out and tugged at the white material. ‘This — what is this that you're wearing under your pants?' Finally I knew what he was talking about. ‘Yeah, yeah,' I said, ‘that's just my diaper.' I remember saying it as if it was the most natural and obvious thing in the world. My diaper!”

“Your what?”

“My diaper, Grandma, can you believe it? I was wearing a diaper and had no idea I was the only one. They were shocked. One of them asked why I was wearing a diaper.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I told them that of course I was, just like they were. It's the same, but the difference was you could see mine, because I wasn't wearing a shirt. I slapped my bare stomach and pulled up at the diaper. I was happy to elucidate why we could see mine and not theirs. I considered myself the brainy one of the group, so the role of explainer suited me. I believed that if they just lifted up their shirts, I could show them their own diapers. After all, we were all wearing them.”

I pause for a spoonful of soup. Grandma nibbles at her banana.

“So John lifted up his shirt the way a gangster shows a gun. Felix did too. Neither was wearing a diaper. They told me they didn't wear diapers anymore. They hadn't for years. They told me they weren't babies.”

“Poor Iain,” says Grandma, chuckling.

“Here's what I learned at my first sleepover: I wasn't completely normal. Not everyone my age wore diapers. In fact, nobody did. And certainly not John or Felix. They had already stopped peeing in their sleep.”

“You weren't a big bedwetter, though, were you?”

“No, it was maybe a biweekly occurrence. But it still happened. Since I was going to be in someone else's home, Mom thought it would be safe to wear one of my emergency diapers. They were called Big-Boy diapers or something because they looked more like underwear than your standard diaper. Mom assured me you couldn't see it under my pajamas and she packed it into my overnight bag. Of course, that logic only held when I was wearing both pants and shirt.”

“Well, I can see why you'd remember that,” she says.

“It probably helps explain why I appreciate solitude so much now. Whereas I think it's likely the opposite for most people — being alone is harder the older they get.”

“You're probably right,” she says.

“It does seem like there's less opportunity to be alone,” I say. “How much time are people ever totally alone?” I push my bowl away with my left hand. “I'm not sure what I'm getting at.”

“You're probably right,” she says. And then, “Or maybe it's just harder to value it.”

“I don't know, I'll go and sit in on certain lectures at the university sometimes. Sometimes I'll even write essays, but only theoretically. I don't actually write the papers but just construct them in my head as I walk home. I'll come up with counter-arguments and attempt to defend my imaginative case. It's strictly for me, for my own interest, so it's weirdly selfish. And in a week or so it's all forgotten, it's gone. Whereas when I talk about something I've been thinking about, like we are right now, it lingers. I'll remember this chat, so does that make it less selfish? Maybe that's why you shouldn't always be alone.”

“Well, of course, there's that. That's just the tip of the iceberg, though, for the importance of others and closeness, right? There has to be a known end to the solitude. You have to know it's temporary for it to be enjoyed.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “I feel like our obsession with youth, or at least upholding the appearance of youth, is also related to our obsession with not wanting to be alone. Does that make any sense?”

“I think being alone is much easier when you don't feel alone,” she says. “Feeling alone isn't the same as being alone.”

I look down into my soup. I have some left but am feeling full. “You don't have to finish that, Grandma, if you don't want to.”

“I love it,” she says, tilting her bowl up to show me. It's already empty. “And not to worry, you've outgrown wetting the bed.”

“Well, I guess so. For now, at least. I kinda wish I still had that silk scarf, though.” And that Chopin tape. “What about some more soup then, Grandma? Would you like a top-up?”

“Sure,” she says, “why not.”

Her bowl looks pressure-washed clean. At the stove I turn away and sneeze twice before half-filling her bowl.

“Someone must be thinking about you,” Grandma says as I set the bowl down in front of her.

“Pardon?”

“You sneezed,” she says. “That's what we used to say after a sneeze, someone is thinking about you. That was a long time ago. But maybe it's still true. And you did it twice.” She picks up her spoon. “So you never know.”

I watch as Grandma peppers and then blows on her second bowl of soup. I have my doubts, but she's right — you never do know.

2:31 p.m.

AFTER LUNCH I
helped Grandma back to the comfortable chair so she could continue reading while I “cleaned up.” I piled our dishes into the sink, adding to our medley from breakfast, and wiped the crumbs off the table with one hand into the other.

“Well, how's everything going?” I announce, carrying in a bubbly Aero bar I found in the cupboard. I open it and snap it into pieces on the wrapper. I lick the melted chocolate off my thumb and finger and set it on the coffee table. “Thought you might like a little dessert.”

Grandma looks up from her book. It takes her a second to mentally escape its pages. She doesn't quite recognize me, and when she does, her reaction indicates she hasn't seen me in years. “Ahhhh . . . well, helllllo there.” She's been holding her bookmark up on her shoulder and now puts it back to work, placing it between the pages. “I think you're getting taller. Is that possible?”

“I don't know about that.”

“Yes, I really think so. And skinnier. You look leaner than you used to.”

“Maybe, I'm not sure.” I don't think my height or weight has changed in eight or so years. I take another step closer. “So, it's still raining pretty hard. Maybe harder.”

“It does sound miserable out there.”

We listen to the rain and I hold the wrapper up in front of her. “How 'bout a little chocolate?” I ask.

“Oh, sure,” she says, taking two pieces of the candy. “What is it?”

“Just an Aero bar.”

She eats her first piece. I watch her hardly shaky hand break off a small piece. She's very unfussy, I think. I don't think she's said no to anything I've offered. I suppose she would have declined chocolate-covered heart.

“I'm just loving this book,” she says. “It's so interesting and different.” She licks the melted chocolate off her fingers.

“What's it about?”

“It takes place in New Orleans. And I didn't know all that much about New Orleans and the criminal element there. It's all quite graphic and awful.”

“Well, you could take a break from it and we could always watch a movie or something.”

“Oh, okay. I don't get the chance to do that very often. I'd like that.”

I'm not sure which movies I have lying around. I don't own many, but I always have a few out on loan from the library or video store. The only one I can find that I own is Trey Parker and Matt Stone's
BASE
ketball
. I'm not certain their target audience is Grandma.

I find a stack of rentals. There are two possibilities. Woody Allen's
Broadway
Danny Rose
and an animated film,
Coraline
. I'm sure Grandma hasn't seen either, so I flip a coin in my head.

Coraline
wins.

My impromptu movie plan affords me the chance to make a batch of popcorn. Like the brewed coffee, it's without a shadow of doubt one of my best creations. I've invented this spice mixture that puts the traditional salt and butter to absolute shame. I can't reveal everything I put into this dry rub, but included are paprika, cumin, and cayenne.

I leave Grandma to contemplate the previews while I pop our corn. It fills my apartment with a philharmonic pinging as the hard yellow kernels erupt into white puffy clouds. I pour them into two wooden bowls and toss them liberally with my spice mix.

For one noisy moment, I am great, and so is this trip.

“It smells so good,” she says as I walk in. It looks like Grandma may have fallen asleep while waiting. The
DVD
menu is up on the screen, and the film's musical score is playing in a fifteen-second loop.

I hand her a bowl and a napkin. “Are you ready to start?” I say.

“Yes,” she says.

“Okay, sorry, just let me run to the bathroom first.”

Half an hour later I've made another trip to the bathroom, have put on and taken off my sweater, have polished off my bowl, and am using my tongue to pick at the kernel skins wedged between my teeth. I'm enjoying the film, but I'm concerned Grandma can't hear it. I also don't want to turn it up too loud and make her think
I think
she's deaf and thus old. So I'm trying to raise the volume subtly. This is tricky because every time I turn it up a notch I have to walk to the TV, and with each increment a graphic appears on the screen showing the new, higher volume. It's all profoundly unsubtle.

“Are you sure you can hear it, Grandma?” I ask for the fourth or fifth time.

“Oh, yes, dear, of course.”

I'm not so sure. It's pretty damn loud, though. So I leave it. On my way back to my seat I notice Grandma's complexion looking unmistakably flushed. She looks sweaty and flustered. I ask her if everything's all right. What would make her suddenly hot and bothered? An age thing? I hope it's not serious. What if it's her thyroid?

“I'm fine, dear, maybe a little warm.”

“Warm?”

“Yes, I think perhaps from that popcorn. It's good, but was it a spicy flavour?”

Fuck! I spiced both bowls evenly. And I was heavy-handed. Each kernel was wearing a heavy parka of cayenne. Maybe this is serious. Maybe this kind of thing can really do her some damage.

“Do you feel light-headed or faint, Grandma?” Should I get her to lie down? Maybe she needs to stand up. I'm above her now, fanning her with the open
DVD
case.

She looks over at me, raising that one eyebrow again. “Oh, heavens, no. I'm fine. I'd love a glass of water but that's it.” She waves me away and coughs savagely.

I run back into the kitchen. I'm sweating now, too. I'm finding it hard to steady my hand as I hold a finger under the running water, waiting for it to cool.

THE PHONE CALL
that disrupted the last scene of the movie was worth it. I left Grandma to watch (or sleep) and jogged into the kitchen to answer it. It was the fellow from the water tank place. He's coming tomorrow. We'll have hot water starting then. Finally, some good news. The credits are scrolling upward when I return.

I don't think she enjoyed the film. I don't think she hated it. I don't think she heard very much of it. She may have been asleep for a large chunk.

Her reaction: “That was just so different.” She's been saying this a lot. She's said it about food and books we've talked about and now an animated movie.
It's just so
different
— a purposefully neutral comment delivered with a positive inflection.

It's dark when I switch off the television. I hadn't detected it was the TV lighting the room. I'm famished. “I don't think you should have to cook again,” Grandma says when I mention supper.

I replay my day of “cooking” in my head: toasted some frozen bread, opened some cheese, warmed up some canned soup in a pot, opened a chocolate bar, made some borderline–catastrophically infused popcorn.

“You know, I don't mind
actually
cooking some supper.”

“Well, I think we should go out, dear. My treat. This week is a celebration, after all.”

“No, no way, Grandma. Not a chance. I'm supposed to be treating you. This is a trip for you!”

“Why don't you pick where we go, then. That's fair.”

“Hardly.” But there's no use arguing. Trust me. Grand­ma's made up her mind. That eyebrow of hers is twitching wildly.

8:49 p.m.

THE ONLY PARKING
spot I can find near the restaurant is a ridiculously tight fit. It's directly in front of a generic sports bar with groups of baseball-hatted lads loitering in front. A crowd never makes parking any easier. I choose to go for it because it's late, I'm hungry, and we've driven around in a circle twice now looking for something better. Grandma is humming. She wonders if the bar is a new one. “It looks new to me,” she says.

“I'm not sure, Grandma,” I say, looking over my left shoulder, then my right, as we inch backward. “I think it's been here for a while.” It's a very old bar, but I don't have the heart to say anything.

I have to verbally wrangle a smoker outside the pub to stand behind my car and direct me as I parallel into place. It's an embarrassing question made worse when he asks me to repeat my request twice. “I . . . need your help guiding me into the space,” I say again. He's finding the situation more comical than embarrassing. Grandma is offering her sincere encouragement.