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Like I say, we’ve always been at odds with Grandma Brinker, and not just because of things like the gnome incident either. She never wanted Mom to hook up with Dad in the first place. And then after Grandpa died, she married that mean old moneygrubber Davis Brinker, and he didn’t like any of us. He finally died last year, and I felt like the biggest hypocrite in the world sitting at his funeral.

Dad assigns me the job of telling Bobby about the trip, but I’m like, “Why should I tell him? He’s not going to want to go any more than I do.”

Dad scowls. “This is about family. Your brother needs to stop feeling sorry for himself and think about others for a change.”

“Feeling sorry for himself?” I can’t believe how wrong Dad can be about his own son. “If you think that’s what he’s doing, then you should go over and tell him that yourself. You know where he is.”

“He’s the one who stormed out,” Dad says, folding his arms across his chest. “He should be the one who comes over here first.”

I look at Mom for support, but she doesn’t say anything. She just stands there looking like she’s about to choke on her little half-smile.

Of course, when I tell Bobby about the trip, he flat out says he’s not going. Grandma never wanted him around when she was healthy, so why should she want him around now? It makes sense, but I know I can’t use that or any other excuse to get out of going to Davenport. Neither can my little brother Drew, though he mopes around the house like an innocent man on
death row for three days straight. He thinks it’s really unfair that we have to go on Thursday, and Dad’s not coming until Saturday. Mom explains that Dad has to work, but Drew’s like, “Hey, I have a life too, you know.”

“That’s right,” Mom says. “And your life is going to be with us in Davenport this weekend.”

“No one ever listens to me!” he wails, and stomps upstairs to his Xbox.

Me, I understand Dad has to work, but I don’t like the idea of Ms. Simmons the church floozy bringing him dinner—and her cleavage—Thursday and Friday night while we’re gone. Ever since Uncle Jimmy tipped me off to her game, I’ve been watching her pretty close. She’s shameless, scuttling around our house in her low-cut blouses, laughing like a nitwit at Dad’s corny jokes, even reaching over and touching him on the arm or the knee while they sit at the kitchen table.

What’s she doing staying for dinner anyway? She should just drop off the food and get lost. That’s what a real Christian would do. But does Dad tell her that? No. He actually enjoys having her there—my own dad, a victim of mammary hypnosis. You can see how I don’t like the idea of him alone in the house with that woman for two nights in a row.

Needless to say, I’m not in the greatest mood in the world as we drive over to Davenport, and when we finally get there, I don’t feel any better. It’s not as big a town as Knowles. They don’t even have a movie theater. But Grandma lives in a pretty nice two-story house on a street with trees that are so big and bushy they look like they’ve been there since before the American Revolution. Mom gets all bubbly and smiley as we pull into the driveway and she spots my little sister Lacy mowing the lawn. Myself, I’m stunned. Lacy mowing a lawn? The girl whines if she has to take the trash out.

She’s happy as a puppy to see us, though, even me. Of course she’s happy to see the others—she probably thinks they’re here to rescue her from Grandma—but after the last time I talked to her on the phone, I figured she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me. Not true, though. It’s like she doesn’t even remember that phone call. Unlike me—I still can’t forgive her for not showing up for Bobby’s homecoming.

She even wraps me up in a big, sweaty hug, which is also new—she never sweats. And her clothes are nothing like her usual girly fashion, not a stitch of pink anywhere on her, just a gray Mickey Mouse T-shirt, a pair of denim shorts, and old grass-stained sneakers with no laces. “Wow,” I say. “Who are you and where’s my little sister?”

She laughs. “Isn’t this a great makeover? And it didn’t cost a cent.”

Inside, Grandma’s lying back in the recliner in her housecoat, slippers, and a curly gold wig that doesn’t even come close to looking natural. I know her hair fell out from taking chemo and everything, but this thing looks like something she stole off a mannequin at a department store. On top of that, she’s lost weight. Not that she couldn’t stand to. She was always a little plump, but this doesn’t look natural either. It’s beginning to dawn on me that Mom’s been sugarcoating things even more than usual.

Everybody tells Grandma not to get up, but she does anyway, and it’s more hugs all around. I feel like I’m being engulfed in old-lady perfume, but Grandma seems to really mean it this time. At least she acts like it. Usually, she just doles out a quick squeeze and a peck on the cheek that makes you feel like something coming down an assembly line and she’s just doing her job.

While Lacy finishes mowing the lawn, the rest of us sit in
the living room with Grandma. Mom and my big sister Colleen drum up some conversation for a while, but Grandma’s tired and seems more than happy to let them do most of the talking. It gets boring pretty quick. Drew focuses on his Game Boy, and even Colleen can’t pretend to be part of the conversation for very long.

Finally, Lacy finishes up with the lawn and asks me if I want to walk downtown with her after she gets cleaned up. There’s not likely to be much excitement in downtown Davenport, but I figure it has to be better than sitting around listening to my mom talk about what the ladies at the hair salon have been up to lately.

As Lacy and I walk along the tree-lined street, she gives me the rundown on Grandma’s condition. Yes, she’s lost hair and weight and can’t keep her food down, but she still has a lot of spirit. Lacy has a hard time convincing her to rest instead of doing housework. Grandma’s always trying to wrestle around with the vacuum or the dust mop. Lacy has started getting up at six in the morning just so she can beat Grandma to doing the chores. But she’s not complaining. She actually laughs about it. She admires Grandma’s spunk.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It looks like Grandma’s a lot worse off than what Mom’s been telling us.”

“Well, that chemo’s hard stuff,” Lacy says. “There’s no getting around that. It’s a battle. But I don’t care how little or skinny she looks right now, Grandma’s a real fighter.”

“I’m sure she is,” I say. “Maybe she thinks she can slap cancer across the face like she did Bobby.”

Lacy looks hurt. “Come on, Ceejay. That’s not fair. That was a long time ago, and Grandma’s changed.”

“We’ll see.”

As we get to Main Street, she tells me the real reason she
wanted to come down here. Turns out she’s involved in a program at the library where she reads books to little kids. She’s decided she loves little kids and wouldn’t mind working with them someday as a career. Apparently, she hasn’t really had a chance to hang out much with anyone her own age, which is odd because back in Knowles her friends were her life. We’re talking about Little Miss Social here. Not to mention boy-crazy.

No, I figure one of these little library rug rats must have a cute older brother Lacy’s dying to worm her way into meeting. So I ask her, very casually, if she’s come across any interesting boys since she’s been in town, but she’s like, “Oh, there’s a couple of nice boys at church, but I haven’t got time for that right now.”

No time for boys? She has to be kidding. This is the same Lacy who practically burned out her little pink phone from rattling on and on to her friends about which boy had the best hair, the prettiest eyes, or the cutest butt.

She’s not lying about the kids at the library, though. A whole pack of them are gathered in a space in front of the kiddie book section. They actually cheer when they see her. Even the librarian claps. Lacy smiles and waves like she’s a celebrity strutting down the red carpet. Walking behind her, I can’t keep from feeling out of place. If Lacy is the star, then I’m the party crasher. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody asked to see my library card and then kicked me out for not having one.

The kids all fall silent as she reads them a book about crocodiles and then another one about a six-year-old astronaut. They’re sitting there gazing up at her, their faces beaming like little mirrors turned toward the sun. Afterward, they gather round her chair, leaning into her, touching her arm, her shoulder, her hair. She knows all their names and exactly how to
make them giggle. Then she introduces me to them, and the shocker is they take to me right off. Apparently, Lacy has already told them about me, so they’re like, Wow, this is great—the legendary Ceejay McDermott all the way from Knowles.

“And now,” Lacy announces, “we have an extra-special surprise. Ceejay’s going to read you a story!”

The kids all clap and squeal but I’m shaking my head like, No way. Too late, though. Lacy shoves a picture book at me, and the kids all plop down on the floor again and gaze up at me like I’m Santa Claus or something. There’s nothing to do but sit in the chair and give it a go. The story is really stupid, all about a dog who learns how to drive a train, but the kids love it. They even want me to do a special voice for the dog part, which is definitely out of my comfort zone, but what can you do when you have a bunch of kids gazing up at you like that?

When I finish, they cry out for me to read it again, but luckily the librarian comes to my rescue, telling them that’s all the stories for today. Lacy puts her arm around me and goes, “See why I want to work with kids now?”

“I guess it wasn’t completely awful,” I tell her, but the truth is I really did get kind of a charge out of it.

When we finally leave the library, I’m ready to snag some French fries and a Coke, anything to just hang and relax, but Lacy’s like, “No, we have to go by the drugstore to pick up some things for Grandma. And besides, it’ll be dinnertime in a little while.”

I’m like, “Surely Grandma’s not going to do the cooking,” and Lacy goes, “Oh no. I’m fixing dinner. Grandma taught me how to make her famous meat loaf.”

The weirdness continues. I mean, Lacy
cooking
? I have to ask myself what is going on here. Is it possible the goody-goody thing can be for real?

Okay, I admit it—the meat loaf turns out to be semi-awesome. Even Drew puts down his Game Boy to rave about it. We’re all sitting around the dining room table, and Grandma starts bragging on Lacy and going on about how glad she is the rest of us have come to visit and even says she can’t wait till Dad gets here. Of course, she’s always hated Dad, but if she’s being fake nice now, she sure is doing a professional job of it.

Everything’s not sunshine and rainbows, though. Just as Lacy’s about to trot out the chocolate pie, Grandma’s face goes pale, and she picks up this little plastic bucket she’s kept at her side ever since we got there. I’ve been wondering what it’s for—now I know. She leans over and vomits into it. Not a violent heave like when you’re a kid and you throw up and it sprays halfway across the room, but more of a slow gray leak.

No one says anything, not even Drew, who’s sitting there watching her, bug-eyed. When Grandma’s done, Lacy takes the bucket from her as if it’s nothing but a dirty dish. From the dinner table we have a full view of her in the kitchen as she empties the bucket into the garbage disposal and starts cleaning it without a single hint of disgust.

Grandma wipes her mouth with her napkin, and goes, “Darn my luck, I’m so sorry. I hoped I could make it through dinner without this. I probably ruined everybody’s appetite.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Mom says. “I’ve had to clean up after every one of these kids when they’ve thrown up, and you had to clean up after me when I did. It’s just part of life.”

That’s Mom for you, putting a positive spin on the topic of puke.

“Oh, Grandma’s always trying to apologize to me too,” chirps Lacy as she scrubs the bucket. “I just tell her I don’t even notice it anymore.”

I guess Lacy has witnessed quite a bit of puking since she’s been here. But the way she handles it—jeez—I can’t hardly see how she could be faking about how much she cares for Grandma. I mean, later that evening, she even helps her take a bath. That’s dedication. Of course, Grandma never took her skates away or slapped her across the face either.

But the thing is, Grandma’s just as much of a surprise. Aside from the puking, she tries her best to stay upbeat and pleasant. Used to be, she was always cranky with us—didn’t like us underfoot, yelled at us for sitting on her car, wouldn’t let us play with the water hose—but now she can’t tell us enough how glad she is we’re here. Even me. She also says she’s concerned about Bobby, but she doesn’t complain about him not coming. She just says she’d love to see those big brown eyes of his again. I’m surprised she even knows what color his eyes are.

The real test comes on Saturday when Dad shows up. For as long as I can remember, every time she says Dad’s name, which is Don, it sounds like she’s talking about something gross she found sticking to the bottom of her shoe. Then half the time, when he says something to her, she doesn’t bother to answer, acts like she can’t hear him. I always figured since her second husband owned three restaurants in three different towns, she thought she was on such a high social level that Dad’s voice couldn’t even reach her.

Just before lunch, Dad comes into the house with a watermelon tucked under each arm for a present. We’re sitting in the kitchen, and I expect Grandma to make some snide remark about the size or color of the melons, but she doesn’t. “Would you look at that,” she says. “I’ve been craving watermelon all week long. You must have read my mind, Don.”

And what do you know? She genuinely seems to appreciate it, even says
Don
like it’s just a regular name. When Dad sits down to talk, there’s nothing uppity about Grandma. In fact, she comes off kind of humble, a little embarrassed, even. Some people might see this as an opportunity to get back at Grandma for years of abuse, but not Dad. No. He turns on the old smile and charm as easy as flicking a light switch. And sure, that’s good of him, but I’d rather see him do that with Bobby instead of getting all self-righteous about the discharge fiasco.