The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma

by Iain Reid

  She loves food and meals. The thought of Grandma not eating breakfast is heartbreaking.

  “Nothing, we’re almost ready. Just waiting on the toast.”

  “Well, then, I’ll do the dishes when we’re done,” she says.

  When the toast pops, I put it on a communal plate lined with a paper towel. I let Grandma choose first.

  “Thanks,” she says. “You know, my friends just couldn’t believe this, they really couldn’t.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m manhandling the jar of peanut butter while Grandma slices off a single serving of cheese.

  “They just thought it was great I was going away, and especially with my grandson. None of them had ever done anything like it before.”

  I wonder what my friends would think of this vacation. I have an idea of what they would think. That’s why I haven’t told anyone about it. “Did they know where you were going, or just that I was taking you somewhere?” I take a bite, careful not to get any peanut butter on my fingers.

  “Well, they knew I was off on a trip with my grandson and were just impressed by that.”

  She means well, but I don’t enjoy being reminded of our situation. I generally adore peanut butter and have spent chunks of my life subsisting on the stuff. But as Grandma tells me how her friends are impressed by my trip plan and how they claim to be envious of her being whisked away on an extended vacation, this familiar breakfast takes on a more repugnant flavour. I’m chewing brown, oily glue.

  “That’s nice,” I say, barely getting it down. It’s looking more and more like this whole thing is misguided. Not a terrible tragedy, but certainly an avoidable blooper. How could I have done this? I’ve brought a very old lady out of her own warm, comfortable home, away from what she knows, out into the rain, with no hot water. And frozen bread. Why? So we can sit quietly and listen to the coffee maker?

  I curse my brother under my breath.

  “Pardon?” says Grandma, resting her toast on her plate.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say.

  Grandma must detect my sudden surge of disappointment and regret. “Oh, you can have some of this cheese if that’s no good.”

  “No, no, it’s not really the food, Grandma,” I answer. “I guess I just wish it wasn’t raining.”

  Grandma, now stuck on the notion of disagreeable food, ignores my weather complaint and continues brightly. “You know, it’s lucky, I guess, but I can really only remember a few times when I really couldn’t eat something.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Once, when I was still studying, they tried to serve us heart for lunch.” She raises one eyebrow. “Can you believe that? Heart!”

  “Heart, you mean like . . . heart. As in heart-heart, like the organ?”

  “Yes, I think probably beef heart. And the funny thing is I’ve always liked most organ meat. I love pâtés and head cheese.” My peanut butter is starting to taste better again.

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, of course, I refused. And the last time I had gout the doctor told me I shouldn’t be eating any organ meat at all.”

  “No organ meat, eh? Huh.”

  “I can remember getting gout for the first time when we were all on a road trip. Do you remember? You were there.”

  “I think so.”

  This has happened a few times. Grandma will start by telling me a story about one thing, which will lead to another and then another. Bad food — to heart — to gout.

  “I didn’t even want anyone to come near the bed. Especially you kids. I didn’t say anything, but it was sore. All you guys were running in and out of the room.”

  We smile at the memory and finish the rest of our breakfast in reflective silence.

  Once finished, we move to the sink. I’m washing and complaining about the rain. Grandma is drying. She is less discouraged. “Don’t worry about the rain. There’s really nothing we can do about it,” she says. “I don’t mind it at all. It’s relaxing.”

  “It’s not so bad, I guess. But it puts a dent in our plans for today, that’s all.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” she says, holding a dripping plate with both hands.

  “How so?”

  “You know what would be a real treat?”

  “What?” I say, looking through the wet window in front of me. It’s covered in silver varicose veins of water. “We can do whatever you want.”

  “I’d love to just go find a chair . . . and read.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, dear. I don’t get the chance to do that very much at home. I’d just love that.”

  “But that’s not really a trip thing, is it?”

  “Of course it’s a trip thing. And today, with all the rain, it’s the perfect day for it.”

  “Well, I guess, if you’d enjoy that.”

  “Oh, sure. It would be very pleasant. If you don’t mind.”

  I take the damp towel from Grandma and hang it on the oven’s handle. I lead her into the living room, to the smallish and old and pink chair. I rarely sit in it, because it’s too small for me. And it’s old. And it’s pink.

  “Lovely,” she says.

  I bring the side table over beside her, grab an extra pillow, turn the table lamp on, and pull up the footstool. “You’re all set,” I say. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Yes, yes. Now you go and do what you have to do. I can stay here alone.” She slowly seats herself with an unwinding sigh. She stretches and lifts her legs out in front of her.

  “No, Grandma, I have nowhere to be. I mean, this is what I’m doing. We’re on a trip.”

  “Well, I don’t mind. You can do some work if you have that to do.”

  “Well, I guess I could do some writing.”

  “Great, you head off. I’ll be here enjoying the rain.” She leans back in her chair, clasping her hands on her stomach.

  “If you’re sure.”

  So I do. I leave Grandma to read. Alone.

  MY ROOM FEELS better for sleeping than anything else. I must fight the urge to crawl back into my unmade bed. And I mean, really, would that be so wrong? Grandma told me to go ahead and use this time as I see fit. She only suggested I could do some work. Besides, we’re both on vacation, right?

  I force myself to at least sit in front of my computer. It’s understood I won’t be doing much writing. I open a new web browser. For some reason I type in “1917” and hit return. It’s the year Grandma was born. I’m not looking for anything in particular. The first link is the Wikipedia entry for the year.

  I click on it.

  “1917 (MCMXVII) was a common year starting on Monday of the Gregorian calendar (or a common year starting on Sunday of the 13-day-slower Julian calendar).”

  I scroll down and read over some of the notable events of 1917: The University of Oregon defeats the University of Pennsylvania in the third annual Rose Bowl. The National Hockey League is formed to replace the National Hockey Association. Two freighters collide in Halifax Harbour and cause a massive explosion. J. R. R. Tolkien starts writing The Book of Lost Tales and thus about Middle-earth for the first time. The very first Pulitzer Prizes are awarded. The first ever International Women’s Day is observed in Russia (she would like that). The Russian Revolution begins with the overthrow of the tsar. The independence of Poland is recognized. U.S. President Woodrow Wilson announces the end of diplomatic ties with Germany. The United States declares war on Germany. Conscription begins in the United States. After months of brutal fighting, Canadian forces take hold of Passchendaele in Belgium. Canadian troops win the Battle of Vimy Ridge.

  In 1917 Vera Lynn is born. So are Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie, Dean Martin, and John F. Kennedy.

  Both Tom Thomson and Edgar Degas die.

  All that happened the year she was born. Now she’s sitting in the
little pink chair.

  I close the window and shut off my computer. I open my desk drawer. It’s filled with papers, pens, a pencil, coins, bookmarks, paperclips, a pair of earbuds, a calculator. I open it the rest of the way. More stuff. There’s a recipe from the paper for a baked halibut dish I’ve never made. I move some envelopes around at the back and find some elastic bands. I shouldn’t be wasting my time. I should be planning our afternoon, or making sure Grandma has everything she needs, or at least hanging out with her. From my desk, my bed looks so comfortable. I take one elastic from the drawer and slip it over my wrist like a bracelet.

  I walk over and fall onto the mattress face first. I’ll just nap for a bit.

  1:18 p.m.

  “I CAN’T REMEMBER for sure,” I’m saying, “but I’m almost certain I was wearing my pajamas, my crimson blazer, and my moccasin slippers. This was more or less my uniform in those years.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Around six. And on this night I was probably also wearing a tiny silk scarf around my neck, cravat-style. I had this Chopin tape I loved and I bet it was playing, too. It was around spring of ’87 and I was supposed to be going to my first ever sleepover. It was scheduled for the next night. I can remember brooding, heavily.”

  I’m standing over the oven. Grandma is at the table. After my nap I summoned Grandma back to the kitchen for lunch. I’m wearing the NASA apron Jimmy brought me after one of his work trips to Houston. Jimmy’s an engineer and spends time working at NASA whenever there is a shuttle launch. The company he works for built a laser camera system for the shuttle. On the apron is the NASA logo and the caption I need my space. There’s no real reason why I should be wearing it. I’m not doing any cooking, but it adds to the illusion that I am, that I didn’t just open a can of pea soup.

  The soup is starting to bubble in the middle. I hope Grandma likes it hot. “Soup’s almost ready,” I say, “hang in there.”

  “I can’t wait,” she says. “So what were you brooding about?”

  “I know, parties aren’t something most people brood about. It wasn’t really a full party. Just a couple friends, my buddies, John and Felix. I wasn’t worrying about anything concrete, of course. There were just so many variables to contemplate and plug into the equation. I couldn’t decide if attending a sleepover was worth it. It seemed crazy to me — why would anyone choose to leave the comfort of their own bed, their stuffed animal collection, and their clean bathroom? It was ludicrous.”

  I look down at the thick, salty canned soup I’m carrying over to the table — also ludicrous. At least I’ve included some fruit. I’ve peeled a banana for us to share. It’s unduly ripe.

  “Dig in, Grandma,” I say.

  “Looks good,” she says. She hand-irons her napkin across her lap and blows softly on her first spoonful. One mouthful in, she opts to rest her spoon on the bowl. She’s never in a rush.

  Investigating my soup further, I’m pleased to discover chunks of pink ham. That is ham, right?

  “And how was it?”

  “It was fine. I was hoping for Kentucky Fried Chicken, but I think we had hot dogs or something. And we watched a film, which I probably found unrealistic.”

  “We didn’t really have many sleepovers in my day,” she says, “but that sounds about right.”

  “It was fine, initially. When it was time for bed, I was the last to brush my teeth. I was in the bathroom and opened my bag to get my PJs. I couldn’t believe she had done this to me.”

  “Who, your mom?” Grandma is beginning to giggle, anticipating buffoonery.

  “Yes, Mom. She’d packed my bloody Care Bear pajamas. I was mortified, Grandma. They were a matching top and bottom duet. There were images, action shots, of all the Care Bears on a lavender background.”

  “Those sound fine. You liked the Care Bears.”

  I cut a piece of the mushy banana for Grandma. It’s starting to brown, but Grandma is unbothered by its indecent texture and accepts it on her side plate.

  “I loved them; they were my runaway favourite PJs. But these were the goddamned Care Bears, Grandma, and I was sleeping in front of my hockey-obsessed buddies. The same guys who were steps down the hall, wearing very masculine Edmonton Oilers and Montreal Canadiens pajamas. I think one of them even had an Edmonton Oilers sleeping bag and pillowcase.”

  “Right, I understand,” says Grandma, laughing more. “That could be a little embarrassing, I guess.”

  “Just wait,” I say. “I emptied my bag, looking for anything else to wear. There was nothing. I had no options. I had to wear the damn bears. I brushed my teeth again and probably tried to comb my hair with wet fingers. I’m sure I was mentally dictating a vitriolic conniption toward Mom, which I would deliver the next day. When I finally left the bathroom, I was shirtless.”

  “Shirtless?”

  “I’d put the bottoms on and realized, with just the silly trousers, it was tricky to discern the small shapes. From a few steps away they potentially could resemble small football players as much as magical, moral-expounding bears. So I left the top, which was much more explicitly beary, in the bag.”

  “Did your pals notice?” Grandma asks, with the faintest of grins. I sense she wants to laugh at me outright. We’ve been together long enough now that she’s probably abandoning the usual constraints of politeness.

  “The first thing Felix asked when I got into the bedroom was, ‘Hey, what’s that?’ ‘What’s what?’ I answered. ‘That,’ he repeated, pointing toward my exposed tummy. It looked like plastic underwear was sticking up an inch or so above my waistband. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. At this point, Grandma, I was honestly confused. I didn’t know what he was asking about.”

  “What was it?”

  “Felix reached his fingers out and tugged at the white material. ‘This — what is this that you’re wearing under your pants?’ Finally I knew what he was talking about. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, ‘that’s just my diaper.’ I remember saying it as if it was the most natural and obvious thing in the world. My diaper!”

  “Your what?”

  “My diaper, Grandma, can you believe it? I was wearing a diaper and had no idea I was the only one. They were shocked. One of them asked why I was wearing a diaper.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I told them that of course I was, just like they were. It’s the same, but the difference was you could see mine, because I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I slapped my bare stomach and pulled up at the diaper. I was happy to elucidate why we could see mine and not theirs. I considered myself the brainy one of the group, so the role of explainer suited me. I believed that if they just lifted up their shirts, I could show them their own diapers. After all, we were all wearing them.”

  I pause for a spoonful of soup. Grandma nibbles at her banana.

  “So John lifted up his shirt the way a gangster shows a gun. Felix did too. Neither was wearing a diaper. They told me they didn’t wear diapers anymore. They hadn’t for years. They told me they weren’t babies.”

  “Poor Iain,” says Grandma, chuckling.

  “Here’s what I learned at my first sleepover: I wasn’t completely normal. Not everyone my age wore diapers. In fact, nobody did. And certainly not John or Felix. They had already stopped peeing in their sleep.”

  “You weren’t a big bedwetter, though, were you?”

  “No, it was maybe a biweekly occurrence. But it still happened. Since I was going to be in someone else’s home, Mom thought it would be safe to wear one of my emergency diapers. They were called Big-Boy diapers or something because they looked more like underwear than your standard diaper. Mom assured me you couldn’t see it under my pajamas and she packed it into my overnight bag. Of course, that logic only held when I was wearing both pants and shirt.”

  “Well, I can see why you’d remember that,” she says.

  “It prob
ably helps explain why I appreciate solitude so much now. Whereas I think it’s likely the opposite for most people — being alone is harder the older they get.”

  “You’re probably right,” she says.

  “It does seem like there’s less opportunity to be alone,” I say. “How much time are people ever totally alone?” I push my bowl away with my left hand. “I’m not sure what I’m getting at.”

  “You’re probably right,” she says. And then, “Or maybe it’s just harder to value it.”

  “I don’t know, I’ll go and sit in on certain lectures at the university sometimes. Sometimes I’ll even write essays, but only theoretically. I don’t actually write the papers but just construct them in my head as I walk home. I’ll come up with counter-arguments and attempt to defend my imaginative case. It’s strictly for me, for my own interest, so it’s weirdly selfish. And in a week or so it’s all forgotten, it’s gone. Whereas when I talk about something I’ve been thinking about, like we are right now, it lingers. I’ll remember this chat, so does that make it less selfish? Maybe that’s why you shouldn’t always be alone.”

  “Well, of course, there’s that. That’s just the tip of the iceberg, though, for the importance of others and closeness, right? There has to be a known end to the solitude. You have to know it’s temporary for it to be enjoyed.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “I feel like our obsession with youth, or at least upholding the appearance of youth, is also related to our obsession with not wanting to be alone. Does that make any sense?”

  “I think being alone is much easier when you don’t feel alone,” she says. “Feeling alone isn’t the same as being alone.”

  I look down into my soup. I have some left but am feeling full. “You don’t have to finish that, Grandma, if you don’t want to.”

  “I love it,” she says, tilting her bowl up to show me. It’s already empty. “And not to worry, you’ve outgrown wetting the bed.”

  “Well, I guess so. For now, at least. I kinda wish I still had that silk scarf, though.” And that Chopin tape. “What about some more soup then, Grandma? Would you like a top-up?”