The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma (15 page)

“When all my uncles, aunts, and cousins saw me, no one in Wick could believe it was me. They were really surprised. They hadn't seen me since I was two. Now I was twenty-five. I guess they just never imagined I'd be back in the village. And they really got a kick out of seeing my nurse's uniform.

“When I got back to Taplow, it was right back into routine. We were on strict rations. I hadn't seen an egg since arriving. Butter and cream were very hard to come by. Cheese, my very favourite, was completely unavailable. It was my relatives who I'd visited who started sending me packages. Had it been non-wartime, those packages would have seemed quite modest. During this time, the content was indulgent. Every month I would receive a small parcel with a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. You can't imagine how good those eggs tasted.

“The hospital at Taplow was full, it was over capacity. I'd been assigned to ward duties, mostly on the recovery floors, looking after patients who were on the mend. My next assignment was to the officers' ward. There was one particular American officer I got to know better than most. He was a dedicated smoker; he preferred cigars to cigarettes. He was badly burned from an explosion and couldn't light his own. Twice a day I would visit him. He would lie there, smoking, and I would linger in the cloud beside the bed. We would talk. Mostly he would talk, I would listen. He would tease me, though, saying, ‘You've been so kind since the baby came.'”

I'm not entirely sure what it means, but Grandma laughs aloud at the memory.

“Others times he wouldn't talk much. We would sit in silence. You don't get that anymore in cafés or anything, the smoke. Which I guess is for the best. It never really bothered me, though. I kinda liked the smell. I probably still do.”

“Do you remember my smoking phase, my early infatuation with smoking?”

“Yes, right. You and your smoking. I'd completely forgotten about that. It was so funny. You really wanted to smoke and took it so seriously.”

“Yeah, I did.” I sigh. “I loved everything about it, even the smell. Or I thought I did. And Mom's theory was if she really tried to discourage me, I'd probably find it more appealing. So she was happy to go along with it.”

“I can remember you always wanted to sit in the smoking sections of restaurants.”

“Don't remind me. I was about four years old at the time. When we had guests over, I'd always have my unlit cigarette with me. I would exhale spurts of perfectly clean air throughout the room and ask if it was too smoky for them. I was completely ridiculous.”

“Didn't you also have an empty pack to hold it in?”

“Exactly. At that point it really felt like my world was complete. It was my very first prized possession. It was like if someone gave me my own home today.”

“And wasn't it your mom's idea to cut up the straws?”

“Yes, exactly. A week after I got the cigarette, she thought my pack looked empty. She offered to fill it with plastic straws cut to the same length. She said it would feel full and look real. It did.”

“Anytime we came to visit, you had that pack with you. It was like your version of a ratty old teddy bear.”

“I know,” I say, shaking my head, “so strange. Whenever company — and not just family but whoever — was coming over, I'd position myself in my favourite armchair, which faced the front door. I'd have a book in my lap and set up my ashtray and place my real cigarette between my fingers. I'd studied the way Grandpa smoked and knew the technique. I never held it firmly, but as if I'd forgotten it was even there. I'd wait for the guests to arrive.”

Grandma tilts the last of her tea into her mouth. She sets her cup down and shakes her head. “You see, I was going on so much, my tea is ice cold.”

I follow and drain what's left of my coffee. It's also cold. “No, no, it was me going on. I'm glad you told me that stuff. That's why we came out here, to chat.”

“But not just about my old memories,” she says. “All those things happened so long ago. I'm not sure what got me started on all that.”

Despite being full, the café feels empty. Each person sits in their own invisible cocoon. I don't feel like staying any longer. I suddenly want to leave.

“Well, what do you think, Grandma, shall we?” I ask.

“We shall.”

The lady with her baby is up and ready to go. His tiny eyes are red and watery. His thin hair, still very blond, is matted down in the front but standing up straight in the back. It's classic baby bed-head. His mother cradles him in one arm now, rocking him slowly and sweetly.

I help Grandma with her coat. Out of the corner of my eye I watch the young mother use caution as she zips her son's coat up. His eyes have closed and she's extra careful when she gets the zipper right up under his chin.

2:39 p.m.

A GREYNESS HAS
settled onto everything. All is drab. My town has become an overused washcloth that hangs over a faucet — damp and dingy and tired. It's not just the sky but the streets, the buildings, people's faces. This feels like a new, undesired season, something in between winter and spring.

It's too brisk to be shopping outdoors, but I haven't been to a farmers' market since last fall. I don't want to take Grandma back to my apartment yet. I've dragged her out in this weather, and it'll take at least one more stop before I can justify this as an outing.

We have a small but bountiful market in Kingston. All the fresh foodstuffs anyone needs, packed into the square behind city hall. During the winter, Market Square is converted into a public skating rink. And one night a week in the summer, the square is transformed into an outdoor movie theatre where everyone is encouraged to show up at dusk with a lawn chair and watch a classic film on the massive screen. For a small city, the downtown square gets a lot of use. This time of year, though, the square still has a foot in winter and the other not yet firmly planted in spring.
The farmers' market won't be in full swing for another few weeks.

I have an alternative plan. There's another market, a smaller one, on the university campus on Wednesdays. In a pinch, it will do. And I'm in a pinch.

We park on the campus, beside the main library. We do one lap around the outside of the market at a snail's pace. Even for Grandma we're moving slowly, heavily. We've bought nothing. I've squeezed a loaf of Portuguese bread. Grandma has commented on the man selling Russian snacks, something about it smelling good. I hope she's at least enjoying the stroll and the relatively fresh air.

I stop in front of the fresh veggie stand. They can't be local, not yet. They're probably the same ones I've been buying in the grocery store, grown in a greenhouse. Somehow they look more appetizing on display outside on a wobbly folding table.

Grandma is a couple of steps behind me. A quick
shoulder
-check confirms she's concerning herself with the flower lady. The flower stall held my attention for about three seconds. I robotically reach out and pick up a tomato. I'm about to release it when the lady working the stall looks up from her chair. She's not really a lady, more a young, curvaceous woman of about my own age. I suppose I don't
need
to drop this tomato just yet.

There's something I find, I don't know, appealing about her. Maybe it's that she's attractive and around my age. And also that I've been spending all my time with a ninety-two-year-old to whom I'm directly related. I pause, examine, and then bring the red fruit up to my face. I give the tomato a sniff and nod my approval.

“A nice piece of fruit,” I say.

“Yeah, they're ripe,” she says, standing up. Okay, this
is
an attractive woman. And an entrepreneur to boot.

“I've always enjoyed tomatoes, even as a young kid,” I say, sniffing it again, this time longer. “They've gotta be one of my favourite things, like, in general.” In general? I need to stop sniffing this tomato.

“Well, they're a pretty good price, too.”

See, she knows about prices and economic theory. She's not just a pretty face. “I use them for loads of things. Sauces, sandwiches . . . you name it . . .”

She smiles, but her eyes dart toward the ground.
Predict­ably, I'm losing her. I hear Grandma sneeze behind me. I turn and instinctively pull her into me. I softly set my left arm around her shoulders. I've been noticing today that when Grandma and I walk around, people take a good, long look at us. They look much longer than when it's just me walking alone, when I can be invisible. And they aren't looking in a malicious way. I think they think she's cute or something. I think they think it's noble of me to be spending time with this little old lady.

It also helps that I've been holding up an umbrella (no one else knows it's mostly useless) for both of us but am clearly favouring her.
My
left shoulder is wet. My entire left side is wet. People like this kind of thing. They think I'm a good, charitable guy. The assumption is chivalry. When we walk down the street, as long as I'm holding the umbrella with my left hand over Grandma, I could be swinging a two-day-old puppy by its tongue with my right hand, à la set of keys, and these people would still find the scene charming.

“Grandma,” I yell, pulling her in even closer, bending down to eye level, “are you okay? Don't worry, everything's fine, we're still at the market.” I peer up at the girl. She's noticed Grandma.

Grandma shoots me a stern look. “Yes, I know. I'm fine. Hello,” she says to the girl.

“Hi there.”

“I'm just out with my Grandma,” I say. “I think it's good for her to be out in the fresh air. She's ninety-two, after all.”

“What, really? You're ninety-two!?”

“Pardon me?” says Grandma.

“She was just wondering how old you are, Grandma,” I shout directly into her face. “She can't believe you are the age you are.” I look back to the girl, my arm squishing Grandma into my side. “I think our little walks really help.”

And with that a man, clearly both a legitimate farmer and her boyfriend/husband, appears from somewhere to the left carrying a large brown box. He sets it down and starts unpacking jars of something. Probably jam. His arms are strong and veiny.

“I guess you guys just buy that from the store or something, right?” I say.

“Nope, we grow the fruit, make the jam, and jar it ourselves,” he says.

“Cheaper than the store, too,” she says.

“Oh, it does look nice, doesn't it?” says Grandma.

“Well . . . I'm not much of a jam guy, Grandma . . .”

“Are you sure? I don't mind buying us a jar.”

I've already moved a few steps back toward the car.

“Come on, Grandma. I think I can feel the rain coming again.”

“Okay, but we just have to wait for something. I hope that's okay.”

“Oh, sure. What?”

“I bought some flowers at that stall back there. They're making me a special bouquet.”

While we wait, I see a young mother and baby. At first I think it's the same ones from the café. Then I don't think it is. This baby is crying, which seems out of character for the placid lad I knew at the café. The mother is unfazed by the crying. I think it might be the worst sound in the world. Maybe I'm just feeling irritable. I can't imagine getting used to it, though. I ask Grandma.

“I know how it seems. But things change when the kids are your own,” she says.

“Yeah, I guess.” I realize a moment later she didn't really answer my question. Or maybe she did.

“Oh, look,” she says, tapping my shoulder, “the flowers are ready. And they're beautiful.”

7:12 p.m.

WE SPENT THE
rest of the afternoon alone. Not only from others but from each other. Grandma in the pink chair, with her book and tea. Me at my desk, in my room. I've been at my desk for a while. Now I decide to just lie down on the floor. I stay like this, stationary, supine on the floor, for ten minutes. Then twenty. Then half an hour.

I wonder how long Grandma is going to live?

It's not something I've ever seriously considered
before today. I've thought about it, but always in the context of how long she's
already
lived. She's lived so long, through so many years, eras. But I haven't thought about looking ahead, at how long she has left. She can't have much time left. What becomes the priority at that point in life, looking back or ahead? When your days are numbered, do you think of much else?

If I were ninety-two I would be wrestling with these questions often. Maybe daily. Maybe hourly. Only in old, old age are we objectively certain our time is almost up. Death is life's only inevitability (yeah, taxes, I know, I know). Is the fear of death more about ourselves or losing others? There seems to be a link between physical discomfort, pain, and death, but when we die, it likely hurts those closest to us more than us. But really we know nothing about death beyond the obvious. What does that say about existence, that we understand very little (apart from conflicting theories) about its only absolute? I'm still lying on the floor when Grandma knocks on the door. She has something with her. It's the flowers from the market. She thinks I could use them in my room.

“But they're your flowers, Grandma. You bought them. You love flowers.”

“They'll look good in here,” she says.

I could ask her about the things I've been thinking about, about death. But I don't. Not yet, anyway. I don't want her to think about it if she doesn't. And I don't want her to think I'm grilling her. Just because she's closer to the end of life doesn't mean anything. And I suppose she isn't necessarily closer to the end anyway. That's the perception, the likelihood, but it's not a certainty. She's definitely close, but maybe I'm closer.