Three Good Things (6 page)

Grand scrubs at his hair as he looks around the motel room.

I used to imagine living in an old Victorian house with fancy porches. In a sleek
wood-and-glass house set in wide fields. Or in a loft conversion with high ceilings,
and a bathtub in front of long windows. Now all I want is to be back in Grand’s living
room with its musty
smell and fraying furniture. “It’s no different or worse than
anywhere else,” I tell him.

He surveys the empty cracker boxes, the clutter of yogurt containers. “You eaten
lately?” he asks.

“There’s a Timmy’s down the street.”

I’ll have a bacon-and-tomato sandwich. And a bowl of chili. And a muffin. An iced
cappuccino. Maybe two of everything. I don’t remember ever being this hungry.

“Remember my chili?” Grand asks when we’re seated at a sticky table with our food
in front of us.

“Sure.” Now that I think of it, it’s probably the only hot meal he has ever made
from scratch. “With Yorkshire pudding.”

“Your grandmother got me into that habit. But you wouldn’t remember her.” He stirs
his chili. Asks me without
looking up, “Does your mother ever talk about her?”

“She says I’m tall enough to be a dancer like Gran. And that I have her widow’s peak.”
I touch my brow. “Not much else though.”

“All true.”

“What happened to her?”

He puts down his spoon. “You were so little. Three? Four?”

I shrug. He wants to talk about old times. I want to know what’s going to happen
from here on in. “I don’t know.”

“It had something to do with all the drugs she was on. Too much. The wrong combinations.
There was an autopsy, of course.” He dabs at his mouth with his handkerchief. Then
his brow. “Nowadays they might call it an accidental overdose.”

I feel a chill, picturing the medication bottles lined up beside my mother’s bed.
“What kind of drugs?”

“I don’t remember their names now. So many at one time or another. Anti-psychotics.”

Like Mom’s.

My spoon clatters as I put it down. I wrap my arms around myself. I’m suddenly not
hungry anymore. Mental illness is genetic. Everyone knows that.

“Your mom never told you?” he asks.

“That my grandmother was nuts too?”

“Leni!”

“Well, if she was taking those drugs, she must have been.”

He looks at his bowl as if he is trying to figure out how it got there. Then he looks
back at me. “You don’t remember her at all?”

“Not really. Just smells. Lemon, I think. And licking cake batter out of a bowl.
A nonsense song about mares and does.”

He starts to hum something or other, then stops when he notices people staring. People
probably thinking,
Crazy old man!

Mom would get into a shouting match with them. For staring. For laughing. Not that
she ever needs a reason. Fight or take flight, that’s what Mom does. Two of the most
basic instincts when humans are under stress.

Grand’s cold hand reaches for mine. “We…I should have told you long ago.” He looks
tired. His eyes are watery, his lids red. “Your grandmother? The other Helen? Of
course, you would know you were named after her. We married right out of high school.
She was wild. Exciting. Tireless.” He speaks with a mix of pride and sadness as he
describes how she was also committed and driven. Dancing six, eight, ten hours a
day. Dancing with bleeding feet and not enough sleep.

He uses donut holes as punctuation when the story gets too hard. Or when he forgets
his place or the words just won’t come. His shirtfront gets whiter and whiter with
powdered sugar.

My chili is cold now. I can’t touch my sandwich.

It is hard hearing about my grandmother’s breakdowns and recoveries, the friendships
she blew, the fights she got into. “Things settled down for a bit when we had Grace,”
Grand tells me. “Helen was determined to do everything right. But that soon led to
manic housecleaning, overprotectiveness as Grace got bigger, confrontations at school.”

I clench my jaws. This all sounds so familiar.

“Things were harder—and easier—when your mom got older and was busy with her friends
and out of the house most of the time. And when your mom started to act up, get into
trouble,
I assumed it was the usual teenage stuff. Rebelling against her difficult
mother…all that. Though I probably knew on some level what was going on. I couldn’t
face it, I guess. I should have. All my time was spent taking care of Helen.” He
studies my face. “You didn’t know any of this?”

I shake my head. I don’t trust myself to speak.

“Then Grace met your dad. What was she? Seventeen? Eighteen.” His gaze is focused
on the past. Not me. “They moved away. I should have kept up with you both better,
but I still had Helen to care for. Then your dad left. Your grandma died soon after.
I saw a bit of your mom and you. But not enough. I guess I was aware that things
weren’t quite right. But the sicker your mom got, the less I could do.”

He looks up at me, challenging, apologizing, “I should have done more.
I know. But
I couldn’t. I had nothing left.” He drags a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs
at his eyes.

“Me neither.” It comes out as a whisper.

Grand leans forward as if he hasn’t quite heard.

“Me neither, Grand,” I tell him. “I can’t do it anymore.”

He takes a wheezy breath. He pulls himself up straight. He shakes his head slowly,
staring at me. He reaches across the table, runs his palm down my face, flat-handed
as if wiping away tears, dirt. “I know, pet. I know. But perhaps we can do it together.”

I rest my cheek against his open palm. Feel the warmth against my cheek.

“Think we could give it a try?” he asks. “Bit of a dragon, that social worker. I’ve
always tried to stay clear of them. But she did have ideas.” He pulls out a sheet
of paper. “Some resources
that we could try. Groups for people like us. The ones
taking care of those who can’t take care of themselves. Seems there’s more help out
there than there was in your grandmother’s day.” He studies the notes for a moment.
Then looks up at me. “So?” he asks. “What do you think?”

I take the paper from him. Scan it quickly.

He can’t do it alone. Neither can I. But we’d have each other. And Mom would have
us both. “Okay.”

His mouth trembles as he smiles at me. “Good girl.”

As we leave, he puts his arm around me. I inhale the familiar smell of motor oil.
Dust and age. Nicotine. “You’ve got to quit smoking,” I tell him. “I need you to
be around for a long time. Mom and I both do.”

“One thing at a time, pet. One thing at a time.”

Jake shifts from foot to foot as Grand settles Mom in our car.

“Where’s Bandit?” I ask.

“He can’t stand long goodbyes. You don’t have to go, you know.” Jake nods toward
the car. “Your grandfather can take care of her now.”

I’ve spent the last few days alternating between his house and my
mom’s hospital
room, where we played Scrabble and let her win. We watched endless reruns on the
tv and shared submarine sandwiches. It was not much different than how Mom and I
usually spend our time. But it felt different—better—with Grand there too.

“I do have to go,” I tell Jake.

Grand closes the car door. A buddy gave him a ride to Richmond so he could drive
us back. He started planning how to get us home as soon as he got my call.

“There’s room for you at our place,” says Jake. “And you could take classes with
me.”

“You asked your mom?”

“Sure.” I can tell he’s lying by the way he doesn’t look me in the eye. “She said
it would be cool.”

“That’s crap, and you know it,” I tell him. “But thanks anyway.”

Grand says the first thing we have to do when we get home is register
in school.
Wikipedia and
World Book
can only take a person so far, he says.

“I have to go,” I tell Jake.

He nods slowly, like he knew that all along.

“You coming or not?” Grand is standing by the open passenger door, smoking.

“I can’t live with my mom,” I tell Jake. “But I can’t live without her. How’s that
for a cliché?”

And Grand needs me as much as I need him. “But thanks.”

“Will you call me sometimes?” When he puts his arms around me, I want to stay there
so badly. Enclosed. Warm and safe.

“You’ve got ten seconds,” Grand roars. “Then I’m leaving without you.” He climbs
into the car and closes the door.

I back away from Jake before I am tempted to hang on so tight I won’t ever let go.

“Come back to visit,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I kiss his cheek. “Thanks for everything.”

Jake has given me a third good thing. Somewhere to return to, after years of never
staying in one place. And never having a reason to return.

I watch him watch us drive away.

Until we turn the corner. Then it’s just me, Grand and Mom.

She mumbles something from the backseat. I can just see the top of her head and her
bad arm sticking out from under the comforter. Between the driver’s seat and mine
is a white paper bag full of prescriptions. I have no idea what she needs to take
when.

As if he reads my mind, Grand says, “Don’t worry about a thing, pet. I’ve got all
the instructions.” He taps his chest. Maybe they are written on his heart. Or on
a piece of paper in his inside pocket.

I grab my backpack from the floor. Dig out the lottery ticket. The numbers 7-11-23-29-37-49
still don’t make any sense to me. Maybe they never did, not even to Mom. “Can you
find a store?” I ask.

“Can’t it wait?”

I know he hates driving. “Sure. When we get home will be soon enough.” I lean over
the seat to ease the ticket under Mom’s comforter. She is fast asleep. Her eyes flutter
as if there’s a whole other story going on behind her lids. Which there probably
is.

I just hope it has a happy ending.

I am so proud to be part of the Orca “pod” and grateful for editor Melanie Jeffs’
special insights into Leni’s story.

Lois Peterson’s books for children and youth have been published in various languages
and nominated for awards in British Columbia, Ontario, Saskatchewan and Texas. A
keen storyteller and writing instructor, Lois works for a large public library in
bc, volunteers in the community, hikes, listens to music and spends the rest of her
time reading almost anything she can get her hands on. Find out more about Lois’s
books and presentations at
www.loispeterson.blog.com
.

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