A Simple Distance (15 page)

I don’t think so, Jean. She’s had a heart attack. And she’s very weak,
Susan said softly, with a sad smile.
Despite her iron fist, your grandmother is ninety-five years old. She cannot hold on to you all forever.

Should we take her to the hospital?

It’s up to you all. Martin thinks she wouldn’t want to go. And there’s not so much more we could do there for her. We’re already over-capacity.

I started to panic.
But we should do something!

You are doing something. You came here to be with her. You cannot stop time itself, J.

Uncle Martin was outside on his cell phone talking, I think, to Uncle Charles.

My breath was hard, like the weight I was carrying had just doubled.

Susan assured me before she left that she’d be back directly after rounds at Grampy’s hospital, then too full for Granny, and left me alone with my family.

The wind outside strong, strong.

* * *

I moved from my mother’s side to my grandmother’s, pulled in a lawn chair from her front porch, placed it on the urinestained carpet beside her bed, the same bed from which my mom and Auntie Clara last year failed to lift Uncle George in time for the toilet late one night—leaving his mark.

Granny lay there, weak, in a bed steeped in death, looking at the ceiling—the only thing moving, her eyelids for the blink—perhaps waiting for Grampy to come get her in his old black motorcar, drive her away to a new home yet again.

Uncle Martin, frantic on his cell phone, prepared to leave in his Four-Runner, pointed directly to me as if he was singling me out to make a 911 call, told me,
Jean, stay with Granny today. I’ll be back this evening.
Zoomed off through Granny’s imaginary boundary.

Auntie Clara in her own house, out back; Valerie in the kitchen; my mom across the hall in an altered state; it was just me and Granny.

Nothing to do but sit. I stared through wrought iron, past standing strands of Australian rebar, to the sea and its low horizon with the day’s stormy clouds. Everything swirled: the trees, the mountains, the sea. Looking out, a tiny piece of me was glad I wasn’t flying in right then and was already there with my two feet on that slippery ground. At least I didn’t have as far to fall; the worst that could happen, a few bruises here and there.

But it was too hard to sit still. And Granny wouldn’t want respectable visitors to see her that way. So, I took the toenail clippers from her dresser and one by one clipped off the curly gray whiskers growing from her chin and upper lip as she breathed and blinked, breathed and blinked.

From Granny’s clotheslines, behind the kitchen, Valerie explained that
de wind is pushin’ de rain away.
No one knew how she did it, got Uncle Martin’s shirts for court so white, down there by the river with a hard brick of detergent. But only the men were allowed to tell her.
I don’t know how you do it, girl,
Uncle Martin would say when he dressed for morning hearings, there, up north at Granny’s, even though Valerie was just as old as he was.

The clothes, on lines between a frangipani and a cedar, clipped to the rope like tethered birds.

As women, though, we couldn’t comment because even though she really was, Valerie wasn’t allowed to be better than us at anything. My mom preferred her Maytag, took the last of the money from her settlement with Harold and shipped it out in a big plastic container along with her jeep, her green gardening rubbers, and her Wolfe range.

* * *

My mom had told me she could see when Uncle George was about to pass—some slight flash of panic, a few extra breaths of this world’s air. She’d taken his hand and squeezed it, put her other arm around the back of his neck, pressed her cheek to the top of his high forehead, told him over and over:
Let go, George. Let go.
Against his struggle to stay.

I didn’t do it on purpose, exactly, but I let go Granny’s hand because Auntie Clara came in dressed for church and said she was off to some big Methodist service in Tete Queue, Granny’s home township. I needed to get out. So I left Granny alone with Valerie in the kitchen; left her and my mom to fight out their silent battle over Godwyn, deep in sleep on opposite sides of the hall.

Auntie Clara drove.

On the way to the church, we passed a cement foundation that was supposed to have been an elementary school, stopped beside it for a view of the sea. The building was started by Uncle George’s party before the last election. But then Hill’s party beat them out and blocked construction because of spite.

There was no reason Granny was a Methodist other than the fact that she’d always been one. Same with my mom and Auntie Clara.

When we got there, I was introduced to people I would not remember under the host congregation’s octagonal gazebo at the top of a hill on the side of a mountain, overlooking the sea. Outside, two flamboyant trees bursting orange. Their statement, perhaps, against the monotony of the event.

The service was a big one, made up of all the island’s circuits. We sat by congregation. Auntie Clara and I had to squeeze between a mother and daughter who used to work for her, cleaning and washing laundry, until the mother walked off with six yards of paisley fabric my cousin had sent down from Florida. They framed us in matching paisley dresses. Auntie Clara proclaimed she had never seen anything so bold, such
brass face
. But what could she do? She was in church.

Each congregation took a turn standing, singing a hymn of its own choosing. There were a total of eight congregations. Auntie Clara complained about the length of the service, started counting the number of each group’s verses. Said to a woman in front of her,
But these are too long. They’ve ten!

I stared out the hole in the wall closest to me, signifying a window, felt the breeze on my face, my neck; looked toward the sea. I wasn’t quite sure if I was glad I’d gone or whether I should’ve stayed by Granny’s side. But maybe sometimes, when there’s nothing to be done, simple motion isn’t as meaningless as it feels.

The minister offered a middling sermon about the conversion of their religion’s founding father on a street called Alder’s Gate, in London. On the front of the handout printed up for the occasion, a Caucasian couple held a book of hymns. Around me, not a single white face in the crowd.

CHAPTER 19

Maybe it was Grampy, snuck into Auntie Clara’s backseat, retracing his way back to life with us this time, come to get Granny; take her back.

Maybe there’s a type of knowing that just can’t be explained, because by the time we returned, I already knew, even as we pulled slowly up to the gate at Granny’s front porch, up alongside Uncle Martin’s car, and Susan’s.

I jumped out of the car while Auntie Clara was still rolling it into position, ran inside to find Susan, arms folded, above Granny’s stiff body, Granny’s eyes still staring up at the ceiling, frozen in waiting. Her son at her side.

Auntie Clara followed me in, started to make noise.

I walked back out to the front porch to catch my breath away from her screeching, felt Susan’s eyes follow me out.

Mr. H., a man who works my mother’s garden, keeping away the underbrush with his machete, had been chopping away at the roots of one of her coconut trees. Ten years he’d been working for my mom. Ten years, little by little, he’d been chopping away at those roots. Earlier that week the tree finally toppled, just like that, in the last big storm.

I walked against the winds over to the coconut tree at the far end of Granny’s front yard, the one next to the tall cedar. A sharp pain pierced the top of my head.

I woke to Susan’s pocket light shining straight into my eye, her soft fingers callously stretching its lid open way too far.

Ow!
I groaned. My entire head throbbed.

Never, ever, walk underneath a coconut tree, J! Coconuts fall all the time … But don’t worry, na. We’ve killed the one that got you. It won’t be troubling you anymore.
She clicked off her light, let go my face, gave me a quick wink and an almost imperceptible smile.

I tried to get up, but the throbbing in my head held me down. All I could do was start to cry. So I did.

Susan took my face again in her hands, wiped the tears.

I tried to push her away.
Stop, they’ll see us! They’ll see us! We’ll go to jail!

But she didn’t stop, bent her head down to mine.
Shush, J. It’s all right … We’re in the maid’s quarters. Everyone is up front. They’re busy with your granny right now. I told them I’d look after you.

Susan, my head …

I know, J. I know
. She showed me the towel, full of ice, she’d been holding to my scalp.

What happened?
The panic lessened.

Just a coconut. It fell on your head
. She smiled, stifled a laugh.

A coconut fell on my head? Are you joking?

No, J.

That’s ridiculous.
I started to laugh, but the movement was a bad idea.
Ow!

You should sit up now, if you can. I’ve already given you something for the pain.
She slid an arm underneath my back, lifted me to sitting.
Scoot back against the wall.

Susan?
I whispered.

Yes, J,
she followed.

Granny’s dead.

She took my hand in hers, squeezed.
Yes. I know.

Susan?

Yes, J.

It’s my fault
.

She smiled, small.
Silly girl, it was life alone that killed your granny. But you do have very bad timing.

Susan
, I was crying again, still whispering,
don’t leave.

I’m not going anywhere, J.

Susan?

Yes, J.

Why am I crying? I can’t stop.

You tell me, J … You tell me.
But she pulled out her pocket light again, checked my pupils.

Out back, always, the wind through the trees.

Out front, voices, baritone and soprano. All running together. One of them, my mother’s.

CHAPTER 20

Granny’d always said she wanted to be buried in Tete Queue next to her mother, the wash girl, not at Godwyn next to Grampy. But no one mentioned that right then. Mostly, she said it for attention. Mostly, when Granny talked, it wasn’t for conversation, it was just to hear someone answer her back, just to know that someone, anyone, was still around.

Susan told me I was not to sleep tonight, for fear of slipping into a place from which I could not wake. Like Granny. Uncle George. Grampy.

There was noise out front. The pain medication was taking effect, and I was curious to hear what the others were discussing so loudly on the evening of their mother’s death, a time, I would have thought, for gentle reflection. So I moved slowly from Susan’s side in the maid’s quarters to join my uncles, my aunts, my mother, scattered wide—a winter constellation—across the front porch, under the electric light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, collecting mosquitoes.

Susan followed me as far as the living room, did not enter my family’s circle. She lay down on the couch. Rested.

Although I had arrived mid-discussion with a lump still swelling on top of my head, even a child could tell something more than just Granny was going on. My mom stood on wobbly legs between her brother and Granny’s iron gate, locked this time of evening from outsiders come to intrude; sea blast palpable in the strong winds against her back—once again in danger of imminent collapse.

I deflected their attention from her to me, held the doorway, though, for support against the hot throbbing in my head and the chill of their reception. But I had lost my ability to be polite. I hurt and was sick of all the endless argument.

What?!
I yelled, deep with all the authority I could find.
What now?

Uncle Martin asserted his spin:
The family will have to reevaluate Godwyn, in light of Granny’s passing.

What do you mean, reevaluate?
I could see his backpedaling a mile away.

Susan intervened. I hadn’t seen her get up, join me in the doorway, but there she was. She placed a steadying hand just above the small of my back, said to my uncle,
This cannot be resolved tonight. You all should be ashamed of yourselves for even discussing it.

My head was spinning: Granny’s moon appeared and disappeared behind fast-moving clouds; mosquitoes circled the electric bulb. I was not steady.

Susan took my arm, led me to her car, and buckled me in, but not before my stomach heaved and I got sick all over Granny’s imaginary garden. Susan repeated the process with my mother, and drove us to Godwyn.

* * *

You cannot sleep tonight
, she reminded me, after seeing my mom to bed, feeding the dogs, and locking Rascal inside with us. That was the way to do it: one dog outside, one in, for security.

But I was tired. I told her so, and she was unsympathetic, decided we’d make ginger beer to keep me this side of slumber.

Until my mom moved back to Baobique, I never knew there was such a thing as ginger beer. She’d known the recipe by heart since she was a child, but apparently forgot to tell me about it. Ever.

It is, simply, root beer, but made from ginger. So it’s sharper, has more of a bite.

Susan filled the biggest pot we could find with water from the faucet, placed it to boil on the Wolfe range while I stood at the counter grating the ginger Fatima had rooted up sometime the week before.

The beer is stronger if you grate the root.

* * *

You like it too sweet, J. That’s not how it’s supposed to taste,
Susan warned me, when it came time to add the sugar and I measured out an entire cup.

I know. Don’t ruin the whole batch. Let’s just take some out for me and I’ll sweeten it myself.

But this is ginger beer. What you want is some child’s drink.
She poured two glasses, tall and obstinate with too little sugar, over ice.

Blame my mother for giving me her sweet tooth. But she makes it with extra.