On Pointe (17 page)

You really would have made it, Clare,

if you weren't tall.

You know that, don't you?

Because you are
such
a good dancer.

I mean it.

Well, it's great to see you.

And nice to meet you.

I have to hurry.

Rehearsal's in half an hour.

I'll tell the other girls

how great you look.

You really do.

Keep in touch.

Bye.”

She skitters away.

Grandpa looks up at me,

chuckling.

Devin chatters more than Mom!

Who knew?

People are so different

outside of class.

Well,

at least I didn't have to think

of one thing

to say.

I push Grandpa to the park

and stop on the pavement

near the biggest maple tree.

This is the one

with the sculpture

hanging in it.

The plaque says it's by Anthony Howe.

Grandpa and I

watch the slowly twirling

circles, cups, and stainless steel arms

moving in different directions

above our heads.

It shines and spins in silence.

A perfect spiral dance

in the breeze.

I set the brake on Grandpa's chair

and sit down on the warm asphalt.

“We made it.”

He grunts.

I lean against his wheel.

Some little kids

are playing hide-and-seek.

I recognize the mayor,

who's served so many terms,

pushing her grandson on the swing.

She's someone as identifiable to this town

as the judge

and the daffodils.

Small towns can be cool.

Even this one,

with the conservatory

hovering like a ghost on Main Street.

It will be fun living where Mom grew up.

The Daffodil Parade in spring,

outdoor concerts later in summer.

I've heard the high school is pretty tight.

In a couple years

I'll be a Spartan like Mom was.

A new life and new friends.

Grandpa brushes my head.

I look up.

He's smiling down at me.

In one half of his face

I see

Grandpa

and the spinning sculpture

glinting above him.

I close my eyes

and listen.

Children laughing.

“Joey,” a mom calls.

The chair squeaks

as Grandpa shifts.

Poplar leaves

shshsh
in the light wind.

“Oooh. Yuck.

Drooly drool!”

A kid's pointing

at my grandfather.

“Oooooh,” he squeals, and runs

to his friends.

I jump up

and wipe Grandpa's mouth

with his handkerchief.

“I'm sorry, Grandpa.

I'm sorry.”

He hangs his head.

“Let's get out of here.”

I release the brake

and roll him away

from their laughter.

“Do you want to stop for tea?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Okay, we'll go home.”

We walk and roll

all the way home

in silence.

Grandpa pushes the gate open

with his good arm,

and I push him through.

We both let out a big sigh.

“Home,” I say,

park him by the sunflowers,

and set the brake.

“Do you want some tea now?”

He grunts.

“Okay, I'll be right back.”

The kettle shrieks.

I pour the boiling water

over the bag,

stir in some honey,

and head back out.

“Grandpa!” I call.

A sun shower mists down on him.

He grins at me.

“It's raining! Come on.”

I set his cup down on the stair

and rush over to him.

He bats my arm away from the brake.

“Grandpa, we have to get you onto the porch.

It's raining.”

He grunts

and swats my arm.

“What? I don't know what

you're saying.”

He stares at me.

I wipe the water off my face.

I try one more time.

He bangs the armrest,

and I start crying the tiniest bit.

Why can't he speak

for once?

Even if it was like before,

and he'd run on and on.

Why can't he speak?

“Ughgh,” I groan.

Grandpa grabs my hand

and holds it up to the sky.

I look up.

The droplets land on my eyelashes.

The sun warms my neck.

Grandpa is smiling again.

Rain washes his glasses.

We hold hands

by the sunflowers.

“Clare!” Mom yells.

I drop Grandpa's hand.

She slams the car door.

“What are you thinking?”

“I—”

“Get Dad inside right now.

It's pouring.

He's soaked!”

She thrusts shopping bags into my hands

and shoves by to the back of the wheelchair.

“Never mind. I'll do it. Honestly, Clare!”

Mom releases the brake

and wheels Grandpa up the ramp.

“Everything is wet!

I'll have to get a rag to dry the wheels

before I can even take him inside.”

The storm door bangs behind her.

“Urghph.” Grandpa turns in the chair

and holds his arm up to me.

He's smiling.

I set down the bags,

hold my arms up

to the sun,

and relevé.

My entire body

stretches

anxiety

out.

“It took me twenty minutes

to change him out of those damp clothes.”

Mom fixes Grandpa's

dry shirt collar.

She tucks the fleece blanket

over his lap.

I shrink into the couch

in my robe

and pull Mija onto my lap.

She nips my hand and jumps down.

“I need to be able to trust you, Clare,”

says Mom. “I need you to think

about what you are doing.”

“I tried to bring him inside—”

“Tried isn't good enough.”

“He was batting my hand away,

and I couldn't even get to the brake.”

“Excuses.

You may have lowered his resistance,

and now he could catch a cold.

I can't have you saying you're

responsible and then showing

you aren't.”

“Mom,” I raise my voice, “I am.

I took him to the park.

We were fine.”

I push away the thought

of the little kid making fun.

“He said he wanted to sit in the rain.”

“Please, Clare. He
said?

I don't know what's wrong with you.

Maybe you are overwhelmed

with everything lately.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“With the failure—the changes we've had—

maybe it's too much.”

“I'm fine,” I say with my teeth clenched.

Grandpa bangs his armrest.

Mom and I jump.

He points at the couch.

“What is it, Dad?”

He points again.

“Dad, I see Clare on the couch.”

He slaps the armrest harder.

I get up and push his chair.

“He wants you to move him

over to the couch.”

“Are you sure?” Mom asks.

I don't answer.

Grandpa leans over

and digs behind a pillow.

He pulls out a harmonica.

“Oh, that must have been left behind

from the prayer meeting.” Mom reaches for it.

“Come on, Dad.

I'll put it in a safe place.”

Grandpa holds it away from her.

“Dad.”

“He wants it himself, Mom.”

“I can see that.”

She struggles to snatch it,

and he pushes her away.

“Fine! I'll call Bruce

and let him know it's here.”

Mom storms off to the kitchen.

Grandpa turns the harmonica

over and over.

He brings it up and presses it to his lips.

“Oooooooohhhh.” One long, eerie note

comes out.

“Clare, stop.

Don't play with that.

It's not ours.” Mom comes

back into the room

and stares at Grandpa.

He takes another big breath.

Several notes slide out

one right after another.

I take a big breath

each time he does.

Somehow, he cups one hand

over the instrument

and moves it back and forth.

The notes are slurred a little,

but I recognize the song.

It's Mozart.

The music quivers my skin.

He pulls the harmonica

away from his face.

He's weeping.

He's talked

to us.

We both rush over and hug him.

“I'm home,” calls Dad.

“I found this cup of tea on the porch.

Hey, what's all this about?”

“Grandpa can play the harmonica!” I shout.

“What?”

“He can. He can!”

“Martha, did you know he could?”

“No.” Mom stands and wipes her face.

“I didn't. I've never seen him, ever before.”

Dad sets the cup on the side table.

“Show me, Lawrence,” he says.

“Wait.” I wipe Grandpa's drool

with his handkerchief.

“Okay. Go ahead and show him.”

This time Grandpa plays a faster song.

Mom claps,

Dad laughs,

and I do some fancy footwork.

Grandpa is showing

there still is some joy

in his heart,

and we are showing

ours right back.

The moon lights Mom's face.

She nudges the porch swing.

I lean my head back.

“I can't believe Dad played for over an hour.”

“Me either.”

Mija slinks out of the shadow

and jumps up onto my lap.

She turns around and around

then sits.

A perfect circle of fur.

“And then he played again after dinner,” I say.

Mom yawns. “I put the harmonica

right next to his bed

when I tucked him in.”

“That's good.”

We rock in the dark.

A slow sad song drifts out of the house.

“I better go check on him.

Something could be wrong.”

“No.” I pull her back down. “Just listen.”

Grandpa plays into the night,

and we rock

in rhythm.

She said

failure

when we were fighting.

It had to have been about City Ballet.

I spit into the sink

and rinse my toothbrush.

I know it.

I failed.

But when she says it,

it makes me mad.

I twist the faucet off.

When she says it,

I want to fight back

and show her

she's wrong.

Even though

she's right.

I'm so tight.

My muscles

feel like cement.

I grip the iron footboard

of my bed

and plié.

That's never felt so good.

I peep at the clock.

7:00.

Ugh.

It's so early.

Voices murmur,

bags rustle.

Maybe Mom and Dad need help

with Grandpa.

I stumble out of my room.

“Well, hey there!” A very large woman

smiles at me.

She's like between Mom and Grandpa's age.

“Uh, hi.”

“Clare, this is Mabel.” Mom

reaches over and straightens

my long T-shirt.

I flinch from her cold fingers.

“It's mighty nice to meet you, Clare.”

Mabel straightens her white uniform

over her large lumpy body.

“I'm looking forward to taking

good care of your granddaddy for you.”

“Great,” I say. “I, um,

forgot you were coming today.

I'll go get dressed.”

“And, Mabel, if you'd come with me,”

Mom says, heading to the kitchen.

I slip on my jeans and a clean T-shirt.

Wow. I knew a woman was coming,

but this one is so big.

She fills the whole room.

Will Grandpa like her?

At least she doesn't look like one of those freaks

who hurt old people.

There was that news report

I watched with Dad one time.

Those guys steal and are rough,

and no one ever finds out

because the patients usually can't talk

or don't realize they're being hurt.

I pull my brush

through my hair.

Mabel's deep laugh

rolls to my room.

Grandpa's going to like

this lady.

Dad wheels Grandpa out from his room.

Mom hurries along beside to comb his hair

one last stroke.

“Hey there, Mr. Lawrence. I'm Mabel.”

She reaches down

and shakes Grandpa's hand.

She covers his hand with her other

and looks him in the eye.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Grumgrh.” Grandpa smiles.

Friends already?

“Mabel, are you sure

you can handle Dad alone

on your first day?

Especially when we have an early start

at the store?” asks Mom.

“Ma'am, we'll be fine.

Clare can help

with any questions. Right?”

“Yeah.”

Mabel reaches over

and squeezes me against her.

She's soft and squishy.

“They'll be fine, Martha.” Dad

gets his briefcase,

gives me a kiss on the forehead,

and herds Mom out.

“Bye.” We wave from the porch.