On Pointe (14 page)

I don't even remember

getting them into the house.

I drag my finger

across the magazine.

I'm worried about not learning to dance,

and Grandpa may never walk again?

All my piled up tears

come out through the night.

This is so horrible

for Grandpa.

It could mean

no walking.

That would mean

no hiking.

No skiing.

Ever again.

No talking!

What then

for him?

I sit on the edge of the couch

and grip my tea cup.

Mom comes in from the kitchen.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart.” Dad rubs his morning whiskers.

“Fill us in.”

“Well.” She pushes Mija off

and sits down in Grandpa's chair.

The cat hisses and disappears down the hall.

“I took a cab

like we decided, Dwight,

at around five this morning.

I'm completely exhausted,

so if I don't make sense

let me know.

Dad's paralyzed

down his right side.

Most likely permanently.”

Mom dabs her eyes.

“And his speech is impaired

because of the damage to the left side of his brain.

He probably won't ever be able

to communicate again verbally.”

Dad reaches over and holds her hand.

Mom takes a breath. “The good news is that

he's fully conscious this morning

and seemed to recognize me.

Half his face smiled.”

She starts bawling.

Dad rubs her back.

I have to get out of here.

The porch is steaming

from the early morning rain.

The sun bakes the wood,

and the water mists up.

This can't be true, Grandpa.

I flop into the swing.

The mist splits and twists

around me as I rock.

All the sunflowers are facing the sun.

The whole garden is shining.

How can Grandpa be paralyzed,

not be able to talk,

how can he not be here to see

his beautiful garden

this morning?

I wander back inside.

Mom isn't crying anymore.

She's at the dining table

crunched up over some paper.

Dad is reading over her shoulder. “Yes.

That too.”

Mom clenches the pencil and snaps it.

“All these changes,” she groans.

“It's going to be okay, sweetheart.”

Dad massages her shoulders.

“Mom,” I say.

They both turn to me.

“What, besides Grandpa,

is changing?”

Mom pats the chair next to her.

“Sit down, Clare.

We need to discuss

everything.”

I sit.

“Clare,” says Dad,

“we need to make some fast changes.”

“Like?”

“Your grandpa

is going to need constant care.

At least for a while.”

Mom lines up the pencil pieces

and covers the break

with her shaking thumb and finger.

“I should be focusing on Dad,

but my mind is racing about us.”

Dad sits down next to her.

“It's okay.

We're all affected.

We have to look

at our angle as well.”

Mom rubs her temple.

“You're right, Dwight.

So.

What I see

is the three of us

move here.”

“Whoa. Couldn't Grandpa move in with us

or something?” I ask.

“There isn't enough apartment space, Clare.

Besides, you were looking

into living here before.”

“That was
before,”
I whisper.

“What?” Dad asks.

“Nothing.”

“We'll hire a caregiver

for during the day,” says Mom,

“and finally,

the move will mean

responsibility for this house,

which isn't that much different from home,

but there's also the garden.”

“I can do that,” I say. “The garden, I mean.

Really. I've been helping Grandpa

in the yard since I came.”

“That's the spirit, Clare,” says Dad.

He takes Mom's hand.

She rests her head against him.

“Our lease is almost up at the apartment.”

“Hmm,” Dad agrees

and ruffles through the pile of papers.

“It's a good thing

your father gave you power of attorney

a few years back.

It's going to make everything a lot easier.”

“Right.” Mom's sigh ruffles her bangs.

“Oh, and Clare.”

She turns to me.

“It will mean

a change of schools.”

“That's not a big deal.

It's not like I had

a ton of friends or anything.”

“Well, you'll get to be with Rosella at least.”

“Yeah.”

So what?

I shut my door behind me.

I've always wanted to live in a house.

And I love Grandpa's.

We've lived in so many different apartments

my whole life

since Mom likes to move.

Starting fresh in new buildings,

over and over.

So now

we are right back where she started.

Her home.

Grandpa's.

Ours.

This really is

my room now.

Not a place to sleep for the summer.

Not a place

in case I made the company.

My room.

I make my bed.

And stuff dirty clothes into the hamper.

I tug out my ballet bag.

The toe shoes are tangled.

I wrap each one carefully.

My skirt is a wadded ball.

I smooth it out and hang it

in the back of the closet.

The whole ballet bag fits perfectly

on the top shelf of my closet.

I shut the door.

We are all starting a new life.

I'm ready to go see Grandpa.

It's nice to pass that emergency sign

and park in the visitors' lot.

An ambulance zooms by.

Somebody else's life is changing.

Maybe ending.

Mom stops me outside the door.

“Even though he isn't in ICU,

I don't want you to be shocked

by his appearance.”

“Okay.”

“What I mean is that

he looks pretty normal,

but he isn't going to be able to respond to you.”

“Okay.”

“So act normal.”

“Come on, you two.” Dad steers both of us

through the door.

“Dad!” Mom bubbles

and gives Grandpa a huge hug.

I hang out at the end of the bed.

Can't even see him yet.

“You are looking

so much better today, Lawrence,”

says Dad in a louder voice than usual.

They both take a seat

on either side of the bed.

“Grandpa?” I say, all trembly.

At least he has his glasses on,

and most of the tubes and wires are gone.

His eyes focus on me,

and half his face smiles.

The other half

looks dead.

“Give Grandpa a kiss, Clare.” Mom leans away

so I can reach him.

I kiss

the side that works.

Warm and soft.

He reaches up

and takes my hand.

“Watch his IV,” says Mom.

“Martha, Clare knows to be careful.”

Dad gives me a wink.

“Yep. I had one of these

a few days ago.

Right, Grandpa?”

“Auuuughh,” he says

and drools.

I gasp and look away.

I thought that was only part of the stroke.

He's going to keep drooling?

A tear leaks out of my eye.

“Clare.

It's important

that we keep control,”

Mom says sternly.

But Grandpa rubs my hand.

I look at him again.

Mom finishes wiping his mouth,

but he has a tear now too.

“Would you stay here, Clare,

while we check in

with the doctor?”

“Sure, Dad.”

I sit down next to the bed.

For the first time ever,

I'm nervous to be alone

with Grandpa.

“So, this

is a nice room.”

He grunts.

“At least no one is in the bed next to you.

You get some privacy.”

“Hellooooo!” A nurse busts into the room.

“And how are we, Mr. Leary?”

Oh, great.

We
again.

Somebody's mother, I'm sure.

Grandpa smiles

half of his half-smile.

“You can wait

on the other side of the curtain,” she says to me.

“Okay.”

I stand by the window

as she flings the curtain around the track.

I take a peek over my shoulder.

There's an open space I can see through.

She takes his blood pressure,

his temperature,

checks under his gown.

Why does she have to do that?

I look away fast.

Oh, I bet he's got a catheter!

That's got to be

what that tube was

coming out from down there.

The one draining into the bag

hanging over the bedside.

It was yellow liquid all right.

Yep, pee.

Poor Grandpa!

I bet he's grossing himself out!

“Your bag looks fine, Mr. Leary,” she says,

“I'll be back in an hour.

Buzz me if you need anything.”

She tugs down Grandpa's gown,

snaps up the sheet,

and slides the curtain aside.

“All done!” She bustles out the door.

“Well, it's sort of private,” I say under my breath.

Mom scoops some pudding

into Grandpa's mouth.

Most comes out.

“That's all right, Dad.

It will take some time

to relearn a few things.”

She scrapes it off his chin

and smooshes it back in his mouth.

I'm totally sickened,

but I don't want anyone

to know.

I watch,

but

my stomach's squeezy.

“You'll be going home with us soon.”

Dad grips Grandpa's foot

through the sheet.

“And we'll be back tomorrow for a visit,”

says Mom.

“Bye,” I say.

Grandpa reaches his arm up.

But he's not waving good-bye.

He's asking us to come back.

“Soon, Grandpa.

Soon.”

I choke a sob.

“He needs physical therapy

and assisted living.”

Mom's voice is squeaking.

“I don't know how we are going

to handle this, Dwight.

The bills will be enormous.”

“Take a deep breath, Martha.

Let's get you to the house

so you can sleep.

Everything will seem better then.”

She sniffles.

“I'll check in at the bookstore.

Clare can straighten up

while you rest.

Let's take this day by day.

Okay?”

She stares straight ahead.

What will the days

be like?

Now I know.

We have breakfast together.

Dad goes to work.

Mom and I go to the hospital.

I read to Grandpa and work the crossword

so he can see it.

Mom scoops in his lunch.

Then she goes with him to physical therapy

to learn what exercises

she'll do with him at home.

That's when I smooth out his bed

and water the flowers

his church friends have sent.

Throw out the dying ones.

Then I flip on the TV and chill for a while.

We get Grandpa back into his bed

and say good-bye.

That's the worst part.

Then we head to the house.

I clean up and do laundry.

Mom works over the bills and insurance.

I garden.

Which is the only time I even think about ballet,

and how different my life is

without one plié.

Mom and I cook dinner.

Dad gets home.

We eat,

read, watch TV,

then get to bed early

to start again.

Over and over.

Day by day.

I dig out all the daylilies

along the front of the house.

The bulbs are clumped tight.

I pull and cut them apart carefully

and lay them in the wheelbarrow.

The pulpy white roots dangle exposed.

I pick the grit out from under my nails

as the work truck pulls into the driveway.

Two construction workers

bang an ugly ramp together

in a few hours.

It runs long to get a gentle slope

up to the big front porch.

They had to take out the side railing

for the landing.

Mom writes a check and they pull away.

I get down in the dirt

and replant the flowers

next to the ramp.

I'm trying to break up that long line.

Everything else in Grandpa's garden

is planted to make gentle curves.

Even the house has the sloped Tudor roof.

The daylilies don't help much.

The ramp is one long eyesore.

The moving company

cleared everything

out of our apartment

and dumped it here

in one day.

I didn't even get a chance

to say good-bye to my room.

Not that it was all that special,

but still.

It's something I always do

before we move.

How do I know

they got

all my stuff?

I step around the boxes

stacked in the living room.