The Winner's Game (8 page)

Y
ESTERDAY AFTERNOON
was like a dream. It was perfect and sublime. Our family was together. We were happy. After Dell and I returned from Home Depot, we spent the rest of the afternoon with the kids doing nothing but beach stuff: walking on the sand as a family, collecting shells, building sand sculptures. We even explored the tide pools near Haystack Rock while the tide was out.

Then we went out to dinner and the tides abruptly changed.

Everything changed.

As I wake up this morning, it's as though Dell's angry departure has cast a pall on the whole world, including the weather. A steady rain is pouring off the roof, signifying the dawn of a terrible day.

When the kids are finally up and going, I inform them that we're going to see Great-grandma Grace.

Cade is the first to ask if he can just stay home.

“She misses you guys,” I tell him. “You all need to come.”

“But I don't want to see someone who we know is dying.”

Ann puts her hands on her hips. “We're all dying, Cade. Just some of us sooner than others.”

Now I place my hands on my hips too. “Ann Marie Bennett, please don't say things like that.”

She shrugs it off. “It's true.”

“Yes, but…just don't, OK? I don't like to hear it.”

When everyone is ready to go, I grab an old key hanging on a hutch in the entryway.

“Are we driving there?” asks Ann.

“We could walk, but we'll be awfully wet.”

Bree is suddenly all smiles. “So we get to drive in Grandma Grace's car?”

“It's the only one we've got.”

I knew they'd love to putt around in Grandma's car this summer, which is why I insisted on leaving our other car back in Portland. Well, that, and I hoped Dell would stay longer with the van.

As we head outside to pile in, I can't help but admire the thing, but then I've always loved this car. My eyes dart from one feature to the next.

Deep-burgundy paint. Chrome grill. Whitewall tires. Fancy headliner. Flowing curves from bumper to bumper
.

It's a 1949 two-door Plymouth Special Deluxe Coupe, in pristine condition. The custom license plate reads, “49-R.”
The older girls have been in it a dozen or so times, on special occasions, but Cade has only been in it once or twice, and it's clear he can hardly wait to do it again, because he's the first one inside.

Before starting it up, I remind them that it was the first car my grandparents purchased together, and they'd decided to never get rid of it. “It didn't always look so nice, but Grandpa restored it a couple of years before he passed away.”

“Are you sure you know how to drive it?” asks Ann.

I give her a puzzled look. “Didn't I ever tell you?”

“What?”

“You know my mother passed away when I was in high school, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my father had to travel a lot for work back then, just to make ends meet, so I spent much of my senior year living with my grandparents. This thing was pretty rusty at the time, but they let me drive it to high school. I called it the Walrus.'”

“The what?” asks Cade.

“The Walrus.”

“Why?”

“Grandpa said each new driver had given it a different name over the years. It was a tradition, I guess. He and Grandma originally named it Dasher, from the ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' song, which was the number-one hit in 1949. My uncle Mike named it Thor when he drove it, and my mom changed the name to Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams.”

“All those other names are cool,” remarks Bree. “So why did you change it to the Walrus?”

I run my hands along the steering wheel, remembering the feel. I turn the key and the old beast roars to life. Finally I adjust the rearview mirror so Bree can see me. “It's the name of a Beatles song. When John Lennon wrote the lyrics, he did so with the express purpose of confusing anyone who might try to find some deeper meaning in them. They're mostly nonsensical phrases, strung together with a catchy tune.” I pause, remembering with angst the dark days of my own youth. “My mother had just passed away. I was a confused teenager trying to make sense of a confusing world, so that song really spoke to me.”

“What would you get out of a nonsensical song?” Ann asks, her tone verging on critical.

I let out a little sigh. “That…some things are just not meant to be understood, I guess. Try as you might to make sense of them, some things in life, like Lennon's lyrics—or the passing of a mother in her prime—are beyond comprehension. Sometimes you just have to accept what you don't understand.” I pause for another moment, and then begin softly singing as I put the car into gear and back up. “I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob…”

There is an odd silence in the car as my voice drifts off. Finally Ann asks, “Do you think I can drive the car, Mom?”

Ann got her learner's permit when she was almost sixteen, but it was just a few weeks later that her heart stopped working and she nearly died in the pool. Since then, between all of her medical procedures—and with my own hesitancy to put her in harm's way—she hasn't really been allowed to get behind the wheel.

“Oh, I don't think so,” I mumble.

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not sure you're ready.”

“I'm as old as you were when you drove it to high school.”

“I know, but…Ann, you're so close to getting a new heart. You just need to hold tight until then. Then there'll be lots of things you can do.”

Ann dismisses my comment with a look of disgust. “I am the walrus,” she mutters under her breath.

“What was that, dear?”

“Nothing. You wouldn't understand.”

When we get to the care facility where Grandma Grace is staying, the misery of the day picks up steam. I've been telling myself for the past nine months that Grandma is dying of old age. After all, she's lived a long time. But the truth is that nobody ever just dies of being old—something has to give. In her case, it's her brain.

The way it was explained to me, Grandma Grace has an uncommon form of Alzheimer's that is causing her involuntary body functions—such as the lungs breathing and the heart beating—to “forget” how to function properly. Like other Alzheimer's patients, she also has increasingly frequent moments of dementia, but the biggest threat to her health is not that she'll forget who or where she is but that her body will simply forget how to work and suddenly stop ticking.

When we get to her room, she doesn't look anything like she did the last time I saw her. Her hair is all matted from lying in bed, there are tubes in her nose and all sorts of electrical leads running from machines near her bed to somewhere on her chest beneath the thin hospital robe.

At least her eyes light up when she sees us, which means she's in one of her better mental states.
For the moment.

The way she slurs when she speaks makes it hard to understand what she is saying, though she's not doing a lot of talking. “My dear Em'ly,” she drawls, very slowly. “You came.”

“Of course we came, Grandma. We've missed you.”

She swallows several times before she can say, “You too.”

“Do you remember the kids? Ann, Bree, and Cade. They were so excited to come visit you.”

Grandma nods.

“Thanks for letting us stay in your home. It's such a nice break for us to be able to come here for the summer like this. It'll be so nice to come see you every day.”

Cade's eyes get very wide. “Every day?” he whispers from the other side of the bed.

I shoot him a warning look.

Grandma smiles—or as close to a smile as her frail lips can manage. “Your house now. My gift to you.” She turns her head slowly to Ann. “And you.”

“Thank you, Grandma Grace,” Ann says politely.

“Yes, thank you, Grandma. You shouldn't have, but it's a huge blessing.”

Her old eyes begin drooping. She looks exhausted just from that short conversation. It's hard seeing her like this. For a moment, my mind wanders back to the picture of her and Grandpa in front of the Eiffel Tower, and I can't help feeling sorry for her.

I take a seat in the empty chair to Grandma's right. “You look sleepy, Grandma. Why don't you just get some rest? We'll be back tomorrow.”

She nods, then lifts her withered, trembling hand. With a distinct twinkle in her eyes, she says, “Kids, don't get old. Beats the alternative…but not by much.”

Grandma drifts off quickly after that. As soon as her eyes fall completely shut, the kids are ready to bolt.

“Can we go now?” asks Cade. “This place smells.”

I know we just got here, but there's no telling how long Grandma will sleep, so I give in and we all head home. The only problem is, when we get there, there's not much to do. After all, it's still pouring outside, so the beach is out of the question. And the TV doesn't work. And we forgot to bring our board games from home. We play a few card games that Grandma has in the house, but that's about it.

Sadly, Thursday is pretty much the same. We all go to see how Grandma is doing, which isn't all that great, and then we come home and wait for something—
anything—
exciting to happen.

Instead of something exciting, what we end up with is…more rain.

On Friday, when we awake to yet another downpour, it feels like everyone is a little more on edge. By midmorning there is a definite increase in the amount of whining and complaining over things like the size of the house, the sharing of rooms, the rabbit ears on the television, and the annoying blue carpet. By noon, the whining is replaced by overt grumblings directed toward specific individuals, mostly in the form of unkind tones and unfriendly glances. As the day wears on, unkind tones and unfriendly glances mushroom into threatening grunts and torrid glares, and before we know it…
kaboom!
It's as though all three of my pirate-children simultaneously raise their black flags and fire their cannons in an all-out war of words. After that point, they can hardly stand to be in the same room without saying something awful to each other, which is problematic because there are only a few rooms to be in.

Since Dell isn't around, I become the default arbiter of every little flap.

“Mom, she's wearing my shirt! And she's so big, she's gonna stretch it!”

“Did you hear that, Mom? She called me fat!”

“Mom, he changed the channel!”

“But Mom, only stupid people watch that show!”

“Mom, she moved her foot to the spot on the couch that's supposed to be for
my
feet!”

“She poked me!”

“He touched me!”

“She looked at me!”

“Mommmm! She's
breathing my air
!”

It's mind-blowing how quickly things can devolve. That's not to say my kids have never had disagreements before. They're kids, after all. It happens. I expect them to have arguments from time to time, or to occasionally tease each other about this or that. What makes this different, at least to me, is that it has never before felt so personal. At the height of their fighting, my only conclusion is that all three of them
truly
hate each other, and I can't help feeling like I've failed as a mother.

At three o'clock, in the middle of their ongoing dispute, the phone rings. I pick it up in the kitchen, but hardly say a word. “Uh-huh…OK…How soon?” When I hang up, I take a deep breath, before yelling, “I've had it up to
here
with all three of you!” I'm pointing at my neck. “Lucky for you, your father is on his way. He'll be here in time for dinner. If you still have fights to settle when he gets here, you can take it up with him. Until then, I don't want to hear a peep!” To make sure they keep quiet, I sequester them to different parts of the house—Ann on the couch in the living room doing crossword puzzles, Bree in her bedroom doing her art, and Cade in the guest room to unravel the mystery of the Rubik's Cube.

When Dell finally arrives, there are still plenty of things to be hashed out between the kids. The squeak of the front door draws them from their quarters like sharks to chum, each of them thirsty for blood.

On account of proximity, Ann is there first. “Dad, do you know what Cade did after lunch?” she gushes. “He burped right in my face! An egg-salad burp! I thought I was going to puke!”

Dell looks up to find Cade swimming across the sea-blue shag. “Cade?” he asks, raising his voice and his eyebrows at the same time.

“It wasn't right in her face, I swear! It was like a foot away!”

“More like an inch, you little brat!”

Ann's telling the truth; it was an inch. I saw it with my own eyes. Rather than defend the indefensible, Cade deftly steers the conversation away from himself. “But Dad, do you know why I burped in the first place? Because she was all like, ‘When was the last time you showered? You smell like rotten fish.' And I'm like, ‘No, you smell like rotten egg.' I
had
to burp. She had it coming!”

“She
so
had it coming,” says Bree, backing up her brother. “Before that, Ann said I was to blame for world hunger.”

“Come again?”

“Yeah,” Bree continues, raising her voice another octave, “she said if I didn't eat so much, there would be more food for the kids in Africa.”

“Ann, your sister is so skinny her ribs are showing. Why would you say that?”

“I didn't mean anything by it. Only that…you know, she should watch what she eats. She's a beanpole now, but not for long if she keeps shoveling it in like that.”

“You are so mean sometimes!” hollers Bree. “Make that ‘
all
the time'! Dad, that's like the fourth time she's said I overeat. Oh, and Cade called me Pizza Face.”