On Pointe (15 page)

At least the big furniture is still out in the garage.

How will we fit

all our stuff in

with Grandpa's?

Somebody is going to have to

get rid of things.

Especially with our giant book collection.

I slide a couple boxes to the wall

to make a path.

Mija sharpens her claws on a cardboard tower.

At least someone

likes this mess.

“Donation

or storage,” says Dad.

“Or garage sale,” Mom adds.

Dad glances at me. “What do you think?”

I look over Mom's itemized list

of our stuff and Grandpa's.

There are a lot of twos

running down the quantity column.

“I think we should save

as many of Grandpa's things

as we can.”

“Me too,” says Dad.

“It will make Lawrence feel like it's his home

even though we've moved in.”

“I'd like to keep

my kitchenware, though,” says Mom.

“He won't notice that,” I say. “But

let's keep his couch and definitely his chair.”

“Absolutely,” Mom says.

“Then we can donate or have a sale

to get rid of what we don't want.”

“That sounds like a plan,” says Dad.

He puts his arm around us both.

It's good to have a plan

we all agree to.

Too bad Grandpa doesn't get a vote.

I drop into bed,

surrounded by boxes.

At least we got the kitchen unpacked.

I can work in here

tomorrow.

Even if everything is out of sight

it's nice to have my stuff close by.

Grandpa's got to be anxious to come home soon

and be near his own stuff.

Grandpa can

halfway smile,

hold and squeeze my hand,

listen,

make grunting sounds,

chuckle,

drool,

dribble food,

and get from the wheelchair

to the toilet

and then back to the chair

if someone helps.

(Not me.)

But that means no catheter!

Which is great.

Um . . .

That's

about

it.

We go for a walk.

Not on a trail around a lake

or up a mountain path.

Grandpa and I

walk

around and around

the twelfth floor

of the hospital

in the brand-new wheelchair

Dad got him.

I walk and push,

and he

rides.

“Again, Grandpa?”

He grunts and points.

We go again.

I dump year-old candy into the trash.

The movers definitely brought everything

from my old room.

Oh, here are all my posters.

I open the tube and tug them out.

Dancers spread across my bed.

A hotness sears my stomach.

Maybe I can store these or something.

No way can they go up on my walls.

And I can't dump them.

It'd be like tossing out a part of me.

Only because I've had them forever.

I stack the curling posters.

I might as well add Baryshnikov to them.

That corner's still peeling up.

I tug the poster off the wall

and add it to the pile.

The roll slides easily back into the tube.

I toss the whole thing into a storage box.

The last box is empty.

Finally.

I flop onto my bed.

It looks different

from my room at home.

I like this old bed Grandpa had in here.

It's more comfy than mine,

which is why I told Dad I wanted it instead.

And the antique dresser.

Everything's less crowded,

even with the rest of my books from home.

So much stuff ended up in storage.

All the ballet trinkets and knickknacks.

My bulletin board is empty.

What will I put up there now?

No ticket stubs from performances.

No photos of famous dancers.

It's absolutely blank.

Kinda scary.

Oops. Those sticky blobs where my poster was

are still up there.

I dig my thumbnail under each

and peel them up.

Little oil circles are left behind.

I'll have to get some other poster to cover them.

Some other thing I'm into.

What was Dia going to try?

Lacrosse?

No way does that interest me.

Will anything ever?

“What is it, Grandpa?”

He points and grunts.

“Candy?”

He shakes his head and points.

“The flowers?”

No.

I get up and go over to the corner

he's looking at.

“What? The book? You want me to read

out loud?”

No.

“Ugh. This is so

frustrating.”

He keeps pointing.

“The clock?”

No.

“I wish you could tell me,

could say it.”

I scoot the flowers around

and look for something

he sees that I don't.

“If you could talk, Grandpa,

I'd listen to every one of your stories,

even the super-duper long ones

I've heard a zillion times.”

He smiles.

“The crossword?”

No.

“Oh, look at this cute teddy bear.”

He nods.

“You want the bear?”

No.

He points at me.

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

“We believe your father will be ready

to be released next week.”

The doctor snaps the cover of the file

closed.

Mom jumps.

“Physical therapy will need to be continued,

but he is completely stable,

and there is no reason

he can't go home.”

“Excellent!” I say, and relevé

up on my toes.

Yikes. Mom didn't see,

she's still talking to the doctor.

But

Grandpa did.

And he's smiling

at my feet.

Dad divvies up the teriyaki.

“Hey, a little more over here.”

I shove my plate closer.

“It's nice to see you eat, Clare.”

He loads on more meat.

“Mm. Thanks for picking this up, Dwight.”

Mom wipes sauce off her lips.

“Well, we needed it.

After the work we did this week,

combining two households,

we all deserved a treat.” Dad takes a big bite.

“This is delicious,” he says.

I swallow. “Yeah,

it's Grandpa's favorite teriyaki takeout.”

“Was this the restaurant on the corner of Main,”

asks Mom,

“or the one by the high school,

or the one by the grocery?”

“The one by the German bakery,” Dad and I say.

Mom grins. “Western Washington is being

taken over

by coffee stands and teriyaki takeouts.”

“Perfect to me.” I crunch into an egg roll.

“Okay, we'll do this when Dad's home.

With the hope that he'll work up to

eating solids again.”

“Right.” I scoop some rice onto my plate.

“He's the one

who really needs a treat.

And this one

he's sure to love.”

Mom takes a sip of coffee

and pushes her empty plate away.

“It is bizarre

living in my childhood room

with my husband,” says Mom.

Dad chuckles.

“Don't you think it's weird for me?”

She smiles. “Absolutely. It's one thing to visit

or sleep over,

but another to actually move back in.”

“That's why I picked the guest room

when I first came,” I say.

“I thought it was spooky

Grandma never redecorated

after you left, Mom.”

“She liked everything the same.

No changes,

anyway, anyhow.” She pauses.

“Seeing Dad like he is

would have torn her up.

I'm kind of glad she isn't here now.”

“Probably best.” Dad licks his fork clean.

“But think about it.”

“What?” Mom asks.

“She'd really like the fact that

you're finally going to keep your room clean.”

We all laugh.

“So
The Muppet Movie
poster

is coming down?” I ask.

“Hey, I like Kermit,” Dad cuts in.

“Okay, you two.” Mom stands

and clears the table.

“Maybe Kermit can stay up,

but the Bee Gees have to come down.”

“Definitely,” I say with a giggle.

Getting piles of forms signed.

Getting lectures from nurses

on life at home after a stroke.

Getting booklets, instructions,

and pamphlets.

Getting all Grandpa's stuff together.

Mom getting him dressed.

Dad getting the van.

Let's get Grandpa out of here!

I slide the van door open.

Dad hits the controls and lowers the chairlift.

The attendant rolls Grandpa onto the metal

and locks his wheelchair in place. “There you go.”

Grandpa's chair rises in the air.

He clenches the armrest.

“It's okay, Grandpa,” I call.

I hurry around and jump in on the other side.

His chair slides in next to my seat.

“See?” I reach over and hold his hand.

“Let's blow this place.”

He grunts.

Mom gets in the front.

Dad starts the engine.

“Good-bye, hospital!” I shout.

Grandpa raises a celebration fist.

The long freight train rumbles past.

Dad inches up to the blinking crossing arm.

“How do you like your new wheels, Lawrence?”

“Grgh,” says Grandpa.

Dad turns around in his seat. “We got a good deal

trading in your car.

This baby is smooth.”

“Hey, Smooth. The train's gone,” says Mom.

Dad turns back and guns it over the tracks.

I wink at Grandpa. “Smooth.”

He's sitting in his wheelchair on the porch

and crying.

Oh, what am I supposed to do?

Mom and Dad are inside

working on paperwork or something.

“Here, Grandpa.” He takes the tissue

and swipes at his face.

“Let me.” I take it back

and wipe his tears and nose.

It feels huge compared to mine.

Weird.

“Come on, Grandpa.

You're home.

Everything is going to be okay.

It's just that things are different.”

He looks up at me.

“You get your same room at least.

And we get to live with you all the time.

It's only a little more crowded

than you are used to.”

He grunts.

“Did you see I moved the daylilies?”

He almost smiles.

“I didn't want to lose them

when the ramp was built.

So I dug the bulbs up and replanted

them. It looks like they are taking

to the new spot.

That's not so easy sometimes.”

“Mija's missed you

so much.”

I pick her up.

Grandpa smiles.

“She pretty much

stayed in your chair

the whole time

you were in the hospital.”

I set her down

in Grandpa's lap.

He curls his good arm

around her.

The cat licks

his paralyzed hand.

Mom joins us on the porch.

“Be right back,” Dad calls from his car.

“Where's he going, Mom?”

“Running to the store for a few things.

She wheels Grandpa into the house.

The extra little slope

the ramp guys made

makes it easy for the chair to glide into the house.

Mom pushes Grandpa to the window

and puts his brake on.

“Your friends

are coming over to hold your prayer group here.”

Grandpa smiles and smooths his shirt.

“Bruce—

the one I met at the hospital—

he said they'd be willing to meet here regularly.”

“Is that okay, Grandpa?” I ask.

He nods.

“I'll put some water on for tea,” says Mom.

“They should be here within a half hour.”

I follow Mom to the kitchen.

“Does his group need to come now?”

“We need to create

some normalcy for him, Clare.

Bruce told me

Dad's prayer group meets

the first Monday of the month.

Seeing his friends will help.

It's only for an hour.”

“I don't know, Mom.

It seems too fast.

I mean, we just got him home

a couple hours ago.

He must be tired.

What's it going to feel like

to be stared at by all of them

at once?

He's so different now,

and not like them—”

“Clare.” Mom rubs my shoulder.

“It's okay. These are his friends.”

I take a big breath. “Right.”

As soon as Dad got back from the store,

he and Mom set out snacks.

Then they both disappeared.

Figures.

I stare at this woman

with super-stiff platinum hair,

and oversized white, white teeth

that click.

She's gobbling me up.

“Oh, yes. You're the dancer.

Your grandfather always speaks of you.”

“I'm not really a dancer. I didn't make it into—”

“Now, now.

I've heard far too much about you.

Your grandfather says

you feel the music.

You move from your heart.”

“Yeah. Well. Um.”

“It's very nice to meet you, Clare.