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"Laying the dreams down." His whisper
almost didn't reach my ears.
"What Grandpa?" I leaned forward,
draping my book over my knees.
"The dreams you have to lay down. The
ones you were never able to make come true. That is the bitterest
part of dying." He cocked his head slightly, rustling the
stiff pillowcase under his head. "Or maybe I should say bittersweet.
All the possibilities are gone, the things you could have
done. The person you should have been. But the ones you did
make happen are very sweet. So the best way to describe the
letting go is bittersweet." He shifted in the bed, trying
to rearrange muscles molded to the shape of the mattress.
A slight smile touched his mouth, blurring the lines of pain
around his lips.
I smiled back at him and took his
hand in mine. The flesh was soft and weak under the hardness
of his calluses that would never really disappear. He sighed
loudly, the tail end of his breath rattling in his chest.
"What is it you wanted to do Grandpa?"
I asked him, worried that his last thoughts would be regrets.
"Oh, nothing earth shattering, my
girl." he chuckled at the expression on my face. "Small things
mostly. Only a couple big ones." he added, with a slight glance
at my distended belly. He slipped his fingers from mine and
reached out the touch the round curve of my stomach. Slowly,
he splayed his fingers, cupping the small life in his hand.
"Now there is an endless possibility. One I dearly regret
I will miss."
My eyes misted and I firmly pushed
the lump in my throat down, locking it deep within my chest.
That was for later.
"Did I ever tell you about the first
time I saw your grandmother?" he abruptly asked, not giving
me a chance to say anything. He took his hand away from my
stomach, leaving a cold spot where the warmth of his skin
had sunk into mine.
"No, you didn't."
"You know that spot on 59th and Grand?"
I nodded my head and seeing this, he continued. "There used
to be a big pavilion there. They strung lights underneath
it and played big band music. It was quite the hot spot when
we were young. All of us, from miles around, would go and
dance to the music." Wearily, he rubbed his hand over his
eyes.
"Are you tired Grandpa? Do you want
me to let you rest?"
"No, stay and hear about your grandma.
I want you to understand."
"Understand what?" I asked, puzzled.
"Why I am not going to wait. To die."
His eyes were suddenly sharp, the drugged look gone and buried
under the weight of his words.
My breath came in a short, sharp gasp
that stabbed my lungs and the cover of my of my book crumpled
under my grip.
"What do you mean?" I demanded through
the half-choked sob that escaped.
"I am tired, girl. Tired of this dying.
How long have I been going at it? Two years?"
My head wobbled as I shook my head
yes. I took two deep breaths, trying to make my world stop
spinning.
"There was always a reason to fight
this thing eating my body. I wanted to see you graduate from
collage and then to see you marry. Now this." He gestured
vaguely in the direction my stomach. His voice faded and his
eyes gathered a faraway look. "Always a reason."
I thought he was dropping off to sleep
so I stood up, intending to go the bathroom where he couldn't
hear me cry. Already the tears were leaking out, frantic to
pick the lock I had snapped around them. Faster than I could
blink, his fingers latched onto my forearm and I had a sudden,
rough feeling of claws, dressed in scales and dry and sand.
"No, sit and listen." His voice was
smooth and firm, drowning out the beeps of the machines around
him. The pressure eased on my arm as I sat back down.
"She was beautiful. The lights in
the pavilion made her eyes sparkle to a deep green. Her hair
was red-gold and so full of waves you thought you were looking
at the sea at sunset. It was long, all the way down to her
waist and it would twist and fly when she would move to the
music." That small smile was back and his whole face lit up
as the memory of her.
"I have it all up here," he said, tapping
his temple, "a video in my mind. The sound of her laugh, the
pitch of her voice."
Weak laughter burst out of him. "Do
you have any idea how erotic the sound of a woman's nylons
swishing was to a man in my day?" and he winked at me.
"Grandpa!" I giggled and he grinned
back at me. A full, happy grin with no trace of the ghost
he was battling.
His smile drifted away. "I am ready
to hear it again. Do you understand?"
"But Grandpa, you can't just decide
when you are going to die!"
"Can't I? Do you mean to tell me that
I don't understand what it's like to fight this off?" he asked
shrewdly. He sighed. "As soon as I stop fighting, it will
overcome me."
"Please, wait until the baby is born."
desperation crept into my voice with an undertone of petulance,
a whiny afterimage of a girl begging for a sweet from her
grandpa. I didn't like it. Clearing my throat, I said, "Please."
Looking me right in the eyes, he seemed
to waiver and then the resolve took a hold of him again. With
out blinking, his gaze held me, trapped me with the truth
of his pain and weariness. "No."
I dropped my eyes and smoothed out
the wrinkles in my book. "Ok then." my hoarse voice shook
with the understanding that this was going to be the one time
in my life I wasn't going to be able to plead and beg for
my way. Sniffing loudly, I swiped at my nose and rubbed my
eyes. Shuddering, I blew the breath from my lungs. I had already
made my decision and I didn't want to embarrass him by breaking
down. That was for later.
"Ok then." I said, my voice steady
and strong, "I'll stay with you. To the end."
Christie
Benson © 1999
Writings
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