A Day Late and a Dollar Short (39 page)

"Sorry, Granny. It means productive, good, something happened that you wanted to happen."

"Where you learn such a big word and you ain't but in the eighth grade?"

"It's not a big word. Granny."

"And sorry my behind. Slam that door one more dme and I'ma make you go get a switch off one of them trees out there I ain't got. Any good news?"

She's laughing now. "This big envelope's from Dingus."

"Open it, would you? And hurry up, hurry up!"

"What's the rush. Granny?"

"I wanna see! I just wanna see! He promised to send me a picture of him at his junior prom and some of them college letters he been getting. I just wanna see some for myself "cause I ain't never seen no letter from no college asking nobody to come to their school. I'm so proud of that boy I don't know what to do."

"What about my mom and Auntie Paris?"

"I don't mean them kinda letters. These colleges is begging Dingus to come. Hurry up, Shanice!"

After taking her sweet time and finally getting the envelope open, she holds up what I know from the back is a picture. "She's cute," is all Shanice says, and then hands it to me. "Dingus might look a whole lot better when he gets all that metal out of his mouth, and he may not know it, but Cleara- sil and Oxy Pads could help his cause. Nice tux, though."

"Be quiet, girl." I turn that picture over and see my handsome grandson, who don't look like he got no pimples on his face, standing with his arm around this pretty little chocolate cupcake of a girl, and it's written all over her that she come from good stock. Paris said her daddy's a preacher, so that mean she been raised right and probably ain't fast like a lot of 'em is these days. "He sho' know how to pick 'em, is all I gotta say," and then I start flipping through what looks like eight or nine different letters Shanice just handed me. "Would you get Granny's glasses for her, baby? Please?"

"I don't know what you'd do without me, Granny. Don't you want me to stay and be your private maid?"

I'm nodding my head yes, chuckling, and getting teary-eyed at the same time when I start reading the names of the schools written in big colorful letters across the top of each piece of paper that I don't need no glasses to read: Stanford University and the University of Southern California and Michigan State University and Ohio State University and the University of California at Berkeley and the University of Miami, and I stop right there, 'cause it's enough. My grandson is going to college all right. And he got choices. And they asking him do he wanna come to their school. Times have sure changed, thank you, Jesus.

"Shanice, what exacdy do a three-point-eighty-seven GPA mean?"

"It means he's getting almost straight A's, Granny."

"Un-huh," I mumble, and read every word of each one of them letters even though they all said the same thing. He's a great quarterback. He's had a great junior year. His grade point average is impressive, and they hope he considers playing and getting his degree at their school, and then they list all the reasons why he'd like it there. I let the letters fall in my lap, and Shanice conies over with a Kleenex and wipe my eyes.

"I hope I can make you proud one day, too, Granny," and she gives me a big hug and squeezes me so tight that I accidentally pull off her litde curly hairpiece, which, to my surprise, she just throws on the cocktail table.

"You know what, baby? I'm already proud of you. I'm proud of how well you've handled all this terrible stuff that's happened to you, and I pray on my knees every single night that you grow up and become a strong, healthy woman. I pray that, if you can't forget this, which you probably won't, that you bury it somewhere so deep you can't find it. So deep that it won't never have to haunt you. Watching you smile makes me happy. I won't lie, now that I know what a GPA means, yours was a three-point-oh if I'm not mistaken, so you might wanna work on getting it up a litde higher next year- which will be your first year in high school, am I right?"

"You're right, Granny."

"And don't worry: I'll be there to watch you run that hundred and two hundred and them relays faster than Flo Jo. How's that sound?"

"It sounds good. Granny. It sounds real good."

"Okay," I say as I open up my tablet and start writing.

"What are you writing, Granny?"

"None-ya."

"None-ya?"

"None-ya business. But when I finish writing whatever it is I'm writing, I'ma want you to take it over to Miss Loretta s for me, okay?"

She nods her head yes, and I start.

I been tossing and turning all night, 'cause my chest been getting tighter since this afternoon. I took my pills, gave myself a breathing treatment. Hell, what more can I do? I ain't feeling too swift, I know that much. I been here too many times before. But I'ma just lay here a litde longer and see what happen, plus, I don't wanna scare Shanice if I have to call 911. Sometime this mess pass. What time is it? I look over at the clock and it say 1:40. Shit. I start coughing again and put my hands over my mouth, 'cause thi s g irl laying right up under me, but I can't stop. Shit. I been wheezing all day. I knew I shouldn'ta stayed in there with that paint or that carpet for as long as I did. Shit. What difference do it make? I'm hungry. Maybe if I eat something I'll feel better.

I ease out the bed and go on out to the kitchen and open up the refrigerator. It's some leftover spaghetti and meatballs in here, and that sauce was good. It ain't been in here but three or four days. It should taste even better now. I put some in a bowl and microwave it and sit at this raggedy table that I can't wait to get rid of once I get my new set outta layaway. I'ma put some of my horse-winning money on it to lower my balance.

After I finish, I put the plate in the sink and get a can of ginger ale and take it back to the bedroom. Shanice done turned her back away from me, thank the Lord. I take a few swigs and lay on back down. My chest is still tight, and I ain't feeling no better. Shit. I ain't in the mood for this. Not tonight. I reach over and take a puff off my inhaler and lay on back down. And wait. It ain't helping. I know I should call 911, but if I lay here for a few more minutes, maybe it might let up. Sometimes it do. You just never know. I feel like turning on the TV, but that might wake Shanice up, and I don't wanna do that when she gotta get up and go to school. Wait a minute. No she don't. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe if I turn it down real low she won't hear it. I pick up the remote control and some old movie is on, something I almost remember but I can't put my finger on right now. I need something to take my mind off my chest. It ain't working. Shit. My throat is closing up and I can't hardly get no air. Shit. I push Shanice as hard as I can and say as loud as I can, "Call 911."

But it came out like a whisper. She rolls over, wipes the sleep outta her eyes, and when she see me looking like I'm gasping for air, she screams, "Granny!"

I grab her arm so hard I know it must hurt but it's the only way I can say, "Call," again, and this time she jumps over me and dial 911 and I hear her yelling: "My granny is having an asthma attack, please send an ambulance right now to 4807 Bledsoe Avenue! It's a light-blue house! Hurry up, please!"

Seem like I feel a little relief. "It's okay, Shanice," I say, fanning myself with my hand. "I just need to sit up and try to be still. They'll be here in a minute and it'll be all right. It's gon' be all right." I sit all the way up and fall forward, 'cause it's the only way it helps you feel like you can breathe easier. Sweat is starting to run down my face and my nightgown is getting sticky. I wish I could take it off.

"Granny, you want me to get your machine under the bed? Want me to get it out for you?"

I cough so hard that all this mucus comes up and when I try to sit up it feels like my neck and chest and ribs is being pulled like rubber bands. I don't wanna scare my granddaughter, but my chest is hurting again. Now my nostrils is flaring out, 'cause when I try to inhale ain't hardly no air coming in. I open my mouth and try to take little sips, 'cause it's all I can do. But now it feels like somebody got a straw down my throat blowing a tiny tunnel of air. This ain't enough. I'm trying not to move, trying not to cry, but now I'm scared. Please hurry up and get here. Please, God, let 'em hurry up and get here. Be still, Viola. Keep your big ass still. One. Two. Three. Buckle my shoe. Four. Five. Six. Shut the door. Seven. Eight. Nine. Pick up sticks.

I hear the sirens coming up the block and I close my eyes and wait to hear that loud knock on the front door and I say thank you Jesus to myself. Poor Shanice, she been standing in that doorway watching me and watching the front door, then she disappears and I hear her open it.

"Where's your grandmother, honey?"

"In there!" Poor thang. She don't need to be here. She don't need to see me like this. Somebody get her outta here. Please. Two paramedics come through the door and I hear the sound of the gurney popping open and then one comes over to me with his bag and look at me sitting here with my head down in my lap, rocking. "How you doing, ma'am?" this one say grabbing that thing out his bag and clipping it to the end of my finger.

I nod my head up and down and say, "I'm fine."

"That's good. Don't worry, we're gonna get you fixed right up here."

I try to grab onto the sheets and at the same time he tries to open my gown up and I grab his hand and he press that cold thing against my chest and say, "Try to calm down for a second, ma'am. I need you to take a deep breath for me."

But I can't.

"Come on. Let's try once more."

I try again, but don't know if I do it or not.

"I've got wheezing in all fields!" he says.

I hear the other guy say, "Her respiratory rate is over 33. Can you try to relax, ma'am? We need you to slow your breathing down."

If I could I would, don't he know that? But I can't. Just hurry up and give me something! Look at my eyes, goddamnit!

"I'm gonna put you 011 some oxygen now and this should help you breathe easier," he says. The next thing I know that mask is covering my nose and mouth and for a minute I feel relieved.

"Her number's still low. Get the albuterol," one says, and then I hear Loretta's voice.

"Vy, it's gonna be okay, sweetie. Don't you worry about anything."

I open my eyes as wide as I can, 'cause it seem like maybe some air might get behind 'em and slide all the way down to my lungs, but it don't work, and when I look at Loretta she know exacdy what I'm saying, 'cause she say, "Don't worry. I won't forget. Now, shush, and relax. Do what they tell you to do, Vy. Come on, sweetie."

"Granny!" Shanice is crying and I can't take her seeing me like this.

"Shanice, sweetheart, come on out here and let these nice men help your granny, dear. Come on." Loretta puts her arms around my granddaughter and now my eyes just say thank you and she put her finger over her mouth to tell me to shush-up again, her favorite thing when she think I'm running my mouth too much, and I shake my head real fast to tell her that's what I'm about to do. Is shut up. And be quiet. But thank you for taking my granddaughter outta here. Thank you for being such a good friend, Loretta. I hope she saw all that in my eyes.

Now something is going down my throat and I know this is that other stuff they try when the first one don't work. "Her blood pressure's hypertensive: 170 over 104; and the pulse is tachycardia 160. And we have ectopy on the heart monitor. Let's watch her for a second. If no change, let's do another albuteral. How you doing, ma'am?"

All I can do is shake my head back and forth, and I think I got this whole sheet balled up in my hand. It's too hot in here. Can't somebody open a damn window?

"Ma'am, I'm gonna give you a shot in the arm. But I need you to sit still. And then we're gonna give you an IV and put you on the gurney and we're gonna take you to the hospital, all right? Try to relax and we'll have you there in a few minutes."

I wish he would stop saying that! How in the hell can I relax when I can't breathe? I feel 'em sticking me with more than one needle but for some reason it don't hurt. Now I feel like I'm about to gag, and, sure enough, here come that spaghetti.

"Oh, no, she's vomiting!"

My head is thick and hot and now I know I won't get no more air. Even when I feel that other tube coming down my throat I know this ain't gon' work either. When they pick me up and put me on that gurney and strap me in and prop my head up, something cold slides between my legs. It's usually colder than this. My hands is puffing up. My arms is, too. I'm swelling.

One fella picks up a litde telephone and says, "Base, this is Rescue 4. I'm in route to your facility. Code 3. My ETA is two minutes. Have a patient with a severe asthma attack. Does not appear to be getting better with the treatment given." And then he hangs up and looks down at me. "Hang in there, ma'am, you're gonna be just fine."

I know he lying. But it's okay. It really is okay. Ain't no use fighting it no more. As much as I wanna stay and move into my new condo and go on my cruise with Loretta, this feel so much easier to do. It don't take no energy. It don't take no strength. Why'm I feeling so much better all of a sudden? It feel like I don't even need to breathe. Lord, this is nice. This is so nice.

"She's unconscious. Her heart rate's dropping and she's turning blue."

I ain't unconscious. And I ain't turning blue either. What island is that over there, Loretta? Is that Jamaica or St. Thomas? Where the hell we at today, girl? Yeah, I'll play a litde bridge, but only after we do some putting. Wait a minute. We home already? Cecil? You in there, baby? I know. I know. I do, I still do. You should know that. But I want you to be happy, especially after all this time. Right now, I'm happy. I don't think I ever been this happy before. I feel good. Just like I did right before I went into labor with Paris. My head is crystal-clear. I feel like I could fly and float and turn a few flips if I wanted to. Right this minute. I could. I know I could. I feel warm and cool at the same time. Soft. Moist and lush. Like Chicago on a hot afternoon right after a good thunderstorm. Whew. What kind'a medicine they done gave me? Lord, give me some more. Give me as much as you want me to have, 'cause right now, right this very second, it feel like I got everything I need. I don't know why it took me so long to get here. Why I been resisting all these years. When I coulda had this smoothness. This calm. This ease. I can't hardly describe it. I never woulda believed it would feel like this. And it's okay. I like this. I ain't worried about nothing right now. Except my kids. Lord, what they gon' do? Please don't let 'em take this too hard. Please don't let 'em fall apart. Please let 'em remember everything I taught 'em. Let 'em find their places-the place that was carved just for them since they was born. Don't let 'em hurt too much. And especially each other. Let 'em know that the one thing they'll always have is each other. And please let 'em find out what happiness feel like. Let 'em have every drop of my courage, my guts, my strength, 'cause I ain't gon' need none of it no more. Give what I had left to all four of 'em. Help 'em to remember how to backstroke and breaststroke instead of just treading water. And please, whatever y'all do, don't drown and don't let nothing or nobody make you sink to the bottom. Y'all supposed to rise to the top, 'cause that's how I raised you. That's how I raised all four of you. To be good. And then, be even better than that. To yourself. To each other. And to everybody that mean something to you. Don't forget that I loved y'all with every breath in my body, and if I had it to do all over again-all over again-know that each one of y'all could have this last breath, too.