The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma (24 page)

“You're healthy and active and you do things. You still think about things, Grandma.”

“It's hard to explain, though. So many in my family died young. Even my dad, who was a healthy guy, he died when I was away at war in Europe. I just never would have imagined living this long, into my nineties.”

I've been wanting to ask her more about death. The topic has come up only once, back in my kitchen. It's not an easy thing to casually toss out to someone in their nineties, someone who is so close. What does it feel like to know you've already lived the vast majority of your life, to be one of the last few of your generation? It must feel strange to know death is so near. If I don't ask now, I won't.

“So you don't worry about dying, Grandma? Or even what death is?”

“I don't worry about it, no, never. It's the end of something, that's all we know. What if it's also the start of something, something unimaginable for us now? We just don't know. But we can each have our own ideas about it, and that's what I like. I like that our own impressions and suspicions of death can be so utterly personal. Do you ever think about it?”

“I guess, yeah, sometimes.”

“Maybe I should think about it more, but I don't know any more about dying because I'm closer to it than someone younger. We all know the same about dying: nothing. And my entire life, I've never thought much about it. That's not to say I don't think about everyone in my life who's gone before me. My mother, father, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, friends. And, of course, George. I do feel like I know the process of dealing with death, its pain. And it is a kind of process,” she says. “That's why I left the war, on compassionate leave. I was told I had to go home, back to Canada. Someone in my family had died.”

“But you weren't told who?”

“No. And to be honest I thought it was my mother. She'd taken ill before I left. I thought about her all the way back home. When I arrived, I found out it was actually my father.”

“So many people around you have died.”

“I don't think you ever get used to it, though, or really know how to deal with it. Each time it's different, and hard for different reasons. I guess I'm the last one left. And in some ways that makes the idea of death almost comforting to me. It'll be my turn soon enough. It's just not something to fear or worry about. So I never even think about. When it's my turn, it's my turn,” she says. “And that's really all I know.”

“I guess you're right,” I say.

“The older I get, the more of the future I get to see. I'm still the person I was at nine, just older. So being old like me is being in a position of luck. I think sometimes people assume luck and ease are the same. I don't think they are,” she says, stirring cream into her freshened coffee. “Being lucky isn't about constant happiness, things being easy, or always getting what you want.”

*

OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ
,
in the rain, we huddle together under my fickle umbrella and wait.

The rain is falling harder. I think it's falling harder. There's been so much rain this week it's hard to remember when it's been heavy and when it's been light; rain of varying strength has essentially been a constant companion. We're hopeful it might let up.

I'm still considering Grandma's words from lunch, and not just the sentiment. It was her face, her eyes, as she spoke. I watch a guy walking for the bus. He doesn't think he's going to make it, so doesn't bother to speed up. The bus has already disgorged passengers and filled up with new ones; it's lingering. The light hasn't changed. I watch as hope enters the man's body. His next step is swifter. Then, yes, he can make it! He believes! He's going to make it! He starts into a full trot. Four or five strides into his run, the light changes, and the bus spits some cloudy exhaust and abruptly pulls out into traffic. He's about six steps from it. His bag drops off his shoulder. He eases back into a casual walk.

This is life, I think.

“Did you see that?” I ask Grandma. “That guy?”

“Which one, dear?” she asks, looking up at me.

“The one over there, who ran for the bus. He wasn't going to run and then he did. He made the decision to run, but he still didn't make it.”

“No, I didn't. Did he miss it?”

“Yup. It was heartbreaking.”

“There'll be another, then,” she says, hooking her arm into mine. “Shall we brave the rain?”

*

IT'S NOT A
café, but coffee is the first thing you smell. There are other smells, too — all pleasant, but none as potent. The fine food store on Brock Street has a creaky wooden floor and an olfactory appeal unmatched in this town. Grandma has been asking about stopping by since her first day in Kingston. We almost forgot. I almost forgot. Grandma remembered during lunch. She wants to take some cheese back with her. Just some aged cheddar cheese is what she said. It seems like a relatively insignificant item to make a special stop for, but I know she loves her cheese.

I'm carrying the handbasket. She's already half-filled it. Inside are a pack of white tea, two chocolate bars, some coffee-flavoured hard candies, organic wheat crackers, and a jar of marmalade. We've yet to make it to the cheese counter.

“Do we need any other snacks for the car?” Grandma asks. “I still have to get my cheese.”

“We could probably use something else.”

“Well, you go pick something, then.”

I leave Grandma at the cheese counter to sniff out the fine selection of fudge, another soft spot for her. I'm no fudge devotee. I have many vice teeth — fatty, salty, caffeiney, alcoholy, etc. — but surprisingly not much of a sweet tooth. And fudge is as sickly sweet as they come. I find it intentionally cloying, borderline offensive in its obviousness as a sweet snack. Yet in the car, especially on road trips, I do covet the odd lump. Its high sucrose content and robust flavour switch from annoying to comforting. This time I go with maple and peanut butter. I furtively pay for them and find Grandma still kicking tires at the cheese display. There are many varieties to choose from.

“Oh, I'm sorry, they all look so good,” she says apologetically. “I'm only getting one more.” She already has two types of cheese wrapped up beside her. The man wielding the knife is cutting a piece the size of my fist from a cinder block of aged cheddar.

I unload the contents of our basket at the cash. Holding her mob of cheese in both hands, Grandma demands to pay and pushes me aside, debit card in her mouth.

WE (I) NIBBLE
on our fudge until it's finished. We've been on the road for an hour or so when Grandma turns and asks if I want to stop for a scratch pad.

“A what?”

“I thought maybe you'd be ready for a scratch pad.”

I am trying to understand. Honestly. But I have to ask. “Sorry, what exactly is a scratch pad, Grandma?”

“Oh, isn't that what you call coffees on the road?”

“Right, road coffees. No, I call them goofballs.”

She's laughing now. “I never get these things right.”

“I think I like scratch pads better.”

We pull off the highway and enter the same coffee shop we stopped at on the way down. I park and leave Grandma in the car. It's hard to tell, with the uniforms and visored caps that make everyone look analogous regardless of place, day, or time, but I think it might be the same overly cheery human at the cash who hands me our scratch pads.

Back in the car, I park crookedly in a different spot, this one facing the road. I lower my window a crack, then turn the ignition off. We both release our belts in unison. The paper cup is hot in my hand.

“We'll just wait here for a bit, until the coffee cools.”

I remove the plastic lid and drop it on the floor by my feet. Grandma leaves her cup in the holder. Cars and trucks glide by in front of us.

“I never did develop a taste for cards, you know. Especially bridge.”

I'm caught slightly off guard by Grandma's arbitrary comment, but now I'm also used to her way of starting a discussion, how something enters her consciousness and she just starts into it.

“Oh, really? I thought you loved playing cards.”

“I've played reluctantly, off and on, for most of my life. It's just that I've never loved it. It was just something we did. I usually agreed to games out of a sense of social duty more than anything, if that makes sense. I don't really enjoy playing, but I do have a fondness for bridge. I'd been sharing some tea with my mother and sister when I was called to the phone. This was just after the war. I picked up the receiver and said hello.

“A man introduced himself. His name was George. He told me he got my number from another nurse he'd met on a train. Both were just back from the war. He hoped I didn't mind him calling out of the blue. I told him of course not. This wasn't unusual for the time.

“At the time of the call I didn't know, but George had cut short his engineering studies when war was declared and spent the succeeding years as a navigator on a minesweeper. But now the war was over. He'd survived. He was travelling by train back to Winnipeg to get his discharge. That was all he knew of his future.

“On the train George was seated next to a woman, an army nurse. They were both in uniform and in good spirits. At some point the nurse told him about her friend who was also a nurse and just happened to be back in Winnipeg. She told him to call me when he got to Winnipeg. It didn't take long for him to move past pleasantries and get to the gist of his call. He wanted to meet. His sister and brother-in-law needed a fourth for bridge. They would be playing later that evening. He asked if I wanted to join.

“I apologized and asked him to wait for a moment before I answered. I'd never played bridge before, Iain. I returned to the kitchen and told my sister and mother. I thought I should probably decline. I didn't even know how to play bridge. All my mother said was, ‘Then it's about time you learned.' I went back to the phone and accepted the offer. George said he would be by to pick me up shortly.”

“I don't think I knew this. For some reason I thought you'd met Grandpa overseas.”

“Well, this wasn't long after getting back. After returning from Europe, I'd gone to work at the Fort Osborne Barracks hospital. Two days after our game of bridge, I finished a long shift and then walked home with a colleague. We decided to stop at a small restaurant for supper. And there was George. He walked right by the table. I called to him, and he came over and said hello.”

“Did you know you liked him at this point?”

“I certainly found him handsome. He had short, dark hair and such a nice face. He was of average height but had sort of a wiry, slender build. He was very strong for his size.

“He asked us both if we'd like to go to the naval mess for a drink. He'd just left a banquet in the hall above the restaurant. It was still going on, but he was feeling restless, bored. He'd been on his way to the phone to ring a friend but said if we were free, he'd prefer our company. We said we'd be happy to join him.

“The mess was busy and loud. That was normal, of course. We each had a drink, then another, and another. I'm not sure, we may have even had another. I was looking at George. I couldn't believe he was six years older than me. If anything, he looked six years younger. I liked the way he talked, the way he laughed.”

“You can remember all that?”

“Oh, sure. It was late when we decided to call it a night. I had work the next day and hadn't planned on being out so late. George suggested a taxi. Once we were inside, I was wondering who was going to get dropped off first. My friend lived in a different direction.”

“Right,” I say, clueing in.

“George was sitting up front, next to the driver, and had told him where to go first. I was pretty happy when we pulled up to my friend's apartment first. We would have some privacy. And the next day, and every day after, I found him waiting for me outside the hospital when my workday was done.”

“Every day?”

“Yup, every day. He proposed three weeks and two days after that first night of bridge. I was completely surprised. I paused before answering.”

“How come?” I ask.

“I was happy with life. I was happy with my work. I'd put in a request to volunteer, this time in Japan, where the war was still going on. Nurses were needed. It would have been another adventure. But I've never been the type to do something just because it's been planned. Meeting George certainly wasn't planned. It wasn't what I'd been sitting around waiting for, or thinking about.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes, of course.”

She'd known him for only three weeks.

“When George told his sister the news, she was aghast. His sister couldn't believe what she was hearing. She didn't know why he was marrying someone he'd known for only a couple of weeks. His sister thought it was ridiculous. He didn't know anything about me.”

“Grandpa told you this?”

“Yup, and he had an easy reply for her. He told his sister he was marrying the nurse he didn't know because he loved her. His sister laughed, said it sounded so naive. I guess it probably did. She really thought he was being silly. She didn't think it was like George to be so irrational.”

The night they were married, Grandma and Grandpa had known each other for less than five weeks.

“You see, I was just plain lucky to have said yes to that game of bridge. I just knew it, right from when we were married. There was so much we were going to do together. It really was so exciting, Iain, to be at the beginning of something, to be starting out. At one point during our wedding night, George got up to go to the bathroom. He was humming. For some reason I can remember thinking how soft the bed was. He was very musical. I can't believe I remember that.”