by Iain Reid
“Oh, really?” She looks at me quizzically and grins. “You know, I’ve never really thought about that.”
We laugh, we sip. Of course she hasn’t.
Along with her reflections, we’ve covered a wide range of topics, including politics and sports. But as I’ve been noticing the past couple of days, regardless of where we start or where we emerge, Grandma has been returning to her family.
Her brother Donald has come up a few times this week. But she’s never stayed on the topic long enough to give many details about his own wartime experience. I leave the remains of supper on the plate for now and ask about Donald.
“Well, you know he was a pilot?”
“Yeah, I knew that. Didn’t he get shot down?” I catch a whiff of the remaining meatloaf left in the pan. I’m almost feeling hungry again. If I’d made a dessert, now would be the perfect time for it.
“He did, yes, several times. Five in total.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and the fourth time, his plane crashed behind German lines. He was found shortly after the crash and was picked up by a Bedouin tribe. They spoke no English but were able to communicate with him just enough for each to understand the other. They were sympathetic and wanted to help. He definitely wouldn’t have survived without them,” she says. “They cared for him. They removed his torn uniform. They had to dress him like one of their own so he wouldn’t stand out. They darkened his face with ash from the fire. Their only concern was his eyes. Donald had very deep blue eyes.”
“How long did he stay with them?”
“Long enough to heal. He was grateful, but once he regained some strength he wanted to get back to the Allied lines. His plane was beyond repair. They agreed to shepherd him for the entire route. It took five days and five nights to get back.”
We’re both quiet, withdrawing into our own thoughts.
Grandma breaks the silence. “There were lots of reasons why Donald and I were so close, I think. I knew him as well as any sister could know a brother,” she says. “He wasn’t a fighter, not like me. One day at school, this was when I was a teenager, I was looking out the window. I saw Donald; he was being chased by two bullies. They were older and bigger. I didn’t know why they were after him. But he never fought. I watched him run to a tree and climb up. And they were still there, waiting for him to come down. I wasn’t listening to the lesson anymore. I was glaring out toward the field, the tree. I wished he would climb down and fight. I really wanted to get up, leave the classroom, walk outside, and fight them myself. I just wanted to get at them.”
I can’t help but laugh at this. I believe her, though.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you about this one day overseas,” she says. “It had been a pretty quiet day at the hospital. It had been hot for weeks. This was the hottest day yet.”
Grandma tells me that even on days off, it was rare not to be occupied with something of tangible or emotional significance. But the wind was dead, the air was muted, plants looked plastic, and dirt seemed fake. On those days of heat and inactivity, Grandma became unglued from routine. Those were days without goals or tasks. Verve and ambition, like the breeze, were dormant.
“So I’d left my room without aim. I just felt like being outside. I was restless and wanted to feel the sun and heat, I guess. I didn’t immediately recognize him. It was easy to approach strangers at the hospital; they were typically happy to chat. This airman was no different. I generally liked pilots because of the connection to Donald. So I just went up to this pilot and we talked, just chit-chat. But for some reason I couldn’t resist mentioning how I had a younger brother who was a pilot.
“The man wondered where Donald was stationed. I told him with 450 Squadron. They were in the desert. It was almost like the man recoiled slightly; his expression changed. He told me that wasn’t true. I told him I didn’t understand. Right away he started laughing and apologized. He didn’t mean I was wrong, just that I wasn’t properly up to date. He explained how 450 Squadron wasn’t in the desert.
“‘They aren’t?’ I say. ‘How do you know?’ According to him they were now in Sicily. I can still picture his face when he told me that,” she says. “I really couldn’t believe it. I knew it would be unlikely, but it meant there was a chance I might be able to get in touch with someone who would know something of Donald’s whereabouts. Even if it was just to hear he was well from someone who knew. That would have meant everything to me.
“I thanked the pilot for the chat and his news. I continued my walk with a purpose now. I was excited, so I took a little detour just to clear my head. I found the matron of my hospital outside her office, in the hallway. She was already talking with someone, a soldier. When I got close enough, I saw he was a high-ranking British officer. Regardless of the topic or how casual they seemed or how important my question was, this wasn’t a conversation I should barge in on. I had to wait.
“I stopped a few feet away. I was probably bouncing on the balls of my feet or fidgeting my hands. I’m not sure; I was trying to keep it together.”
Grandma, the keeper of serenity, undeniably unruffleable, says she was aware of the beating heart in her chest.
“As the matron carried on, I would have done anything to grab her attention. But I kept waiting. It must have been two or three minutes before she noticed me. She looked surprised to see one of her nurses standing there. She wondered what I wanted.”
Being enormously excited makes the most mundane and manageable actions formidable. Grandma must have had to think carefully about what she was saying, to keep her enthusiasm in check. She must have had electric bones.
“I told them what I’d just heard, that it was a long shot, but that my younger brother, or someone connected to him, might be in Sicily. I was trying to sound calm. It was the officer, not the matron, who answered. He wondered which squadron. I told him. I think he looked back toward the matron for a flash. Then he told me it was true, that squadron was in Sicily. He knew it because they had just arrived with an Australian squadron. He pointed off to his right. He said they were just down the road.”
In a war like that, minute increments of time could often carry immense potency. The fundamentals of a life, or lives, regularly veer in a second. Emotion doesn’t have a chance to yield to retrospection. Grandma tells me that what she was experiencing was a blend of extreme surprise, aggressive elation, and total warmth. What were the odds he was still with them? That he wasn’t hurt, or worse? But at least she might be able to get some information, an update.
“Remember, I hadn’t seen or talked to Donald in years. Before the officer left, he said he wasn’t sure how likely it was, but if Donald was still with them, maybe I could try to track him down. He told me it would have to wait until the next day.”
Grandma takes a break for a sip of wine. I’m sure the concept of tomorrow was as close to indecipherable as such a normal word could be. It must have lost its meaning. It must have been strangely difficult to interpret when tomorrow would become today.
“I returned to my room. I sat down on my cot. I’d been sewing. It’s funny, because I’d never been much of a sewer. But I kept on sewing. I had to do something. I had to be busy. I couldn’t tell you how long I’d been at it when another nurse appeared at my door. She was beaming. ‘Nick!’ she called to me. ‘It’s your brother! He’s downstairs!’”
Grandma’s voice has been steady and consistent throughout the entire story. She hasn’t been muddled or stumbled at all. She’s been clear and solid. And not just for someone who is ninety-two. She’s been objectively steady, clear. But it’s here, when she says, “He’s downstairs,” that there’s a noticeable change, a variation in pitch. She has to pause and clear her throat before she can continue.
“Even though the nurse was excited and had yelled the news, I heard it perfectly. I absorbed it. But I didn’t freeze. Instead I leaped up. I threw th
e sewing to my left onto the floor, or somewhere, I didn’t see where it landed. I rushed past her and ran out of the room. I ran down the long corridor.
“I was told the full story later. The British officer who’d been talking with the matron had gone down the road, looking for Donald. And somehow he’d found him. He told Donald what had happened, who he’d talked with, that he’d just met this nurse. He offered Donald his own motorcycle. He told him to be quick, but he’d better go up and say hi to his big sister. Imagine, lending out his own motorcycle.
“I ran the entire way, all the way to the stairwell, and just continued running down the stairs. I had three flights to get down. When I got to the last flight of steps, I could see outside. There at the bottom of the stairs was this lanky figure, a few feet away, a boy. I never would have known that I could recognize his posture, but I could. Just the way he was standing, I knew it was him. And just for a moment, maybe a few seconds, I looked at him.”
For the first time on our trip, Grandma’s voice breaks. It’s the first time in all her stories, all her reflections, that she’s forced to stop because of emotion. She shakes her head and smiles. She looks down, then up. Her eyes have filled up and she wipes at them gently with the back of her index finger. She takes a few moments to compose herself.
“He was dressed in khaki shorts and worn boots. He was wearing an Australian airman’s hat. I can still see him standing there. I’d never seen him so tanned. He looked older, but still so young. He was so thin, and all covered in dust.
“I started to run again, down the last flight. I took the first step, but then I just jumped. I had to. I went right over the last five and landed at the bottom. I grabbed him and hugged him. I thought I could detect some commotion. We’d caused a scene. I didn’t care. Somewhere behind me, I heard someone scream when I jumped. It wasn’t proper conduct for a nurse. Then I definitely heard a second voice telling the screamer it was okay, it was fine. That that boy was my little brother.”
9:55 p.m.
INSTEAD OF HER lips, the wine has made her face redder still, a shade that, I think, is even brighter in contrast to her white hair. Grandma’s up out of her chair. She’s shuffling to the right and then the left. Her hands are down almost as low as her knees.
After the dishes — me washing, her drying — we opted to move to the (relatively) comfortable chairs. That’s when I remembered my liquor store purchase, the one I’d run back in to get: that bottle of Southern Comfort Grandma had commented on. She seemed thrilled to see it. It was the least I could do.
Her enthusiasm was preceded by a moment of communal confusion. Neither of us knew the best way to consume this amber liquid. Grandma couldn’t remember. She did recount her story again, about her and Grandpa taking a trip together — she’d forgotten she’d already told me. I’m not sure if she realized that was why I bought it.
I used my computer to find the most common drinks made with Southern Comfort. I was instructed to mix it with some fresh lime juice and serve over ice.
Once I was on the couch and Grandma was in her pink chair, we held up our cups for a moment until she suggested we toast the trip. It was a pleasingly sour drink. But sweet, too. In itself, an appropriate metaphor for what we were toasting.
My line of questioning turned to her life in the early twenties. It’s an era I’m interested in and have read extensively about. Some of my favourite books are set in and around the twenties. But up until this week, I’ve never spent much time talking to her about it. This is what led to her getting up out of her chair.
To do her dance performance.
It’s her rendition of the Charleston, the defining dance of the time. It was the early years of jazz, when ragtime was still prevalent. We’ve been listening to jazz all night. Count Basie, Bessie Smith, and Benny Goodman.
She can’t continue her performance for long. After thirty seconds or so she’s out of breath, like she was on Wolfe Island. She dances for another ten seconds, and when she falls back into the chair her pant leg comes up. I notice something black around her upper shin. She notices me looking.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just one of those braces.”
“You’re wearing a brace? For your knee?”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to be wearing it whenever I walk around. So I thought I should throw it into my bag for the trip. I’m not sure it does a whole lot.”
“Have you been wearing it much?”
“Some of the time.” This probably means most of the time; she would never say.
“I didn’t know your leg was still bugging you.” It’s the injury from the fall she had outside her hair salon. “You haven’t said anything.”
“Oh, no, it’s not, really. It’s silly, really. I’m lucky it hasn’t gotten any worse.”
She extends her leg and rolls up her pants. It’s a firm nylon brace. It’s hard to believe I haven’t noticed it until now, the last night of our vacation. She’s holding her leg straight out and up off the floor. I grab the stool from under my own heavy leg.
“Here, you should have had this all along. How’s it feeling?”
“Fine. Much better today. There’s definitely an improvement. I’ll need all my parts working for next week.”
“How come?”
“I’ve agreed to be part of an art installation. It sounds quite interesting.”
“What is it?”
“A French artist is putting together an exhibit called Resistance. He’s going to take photos of body parts of several veterans from the war. He’s going to blow each picture up very big and display it alongside a very small picture of the face of the same vet taken around the time of the war.”
“That does sound cool. Do you know what body part he’ll take?”
“No, but I don’t really care. Whatever he suggests. I imagine some will have an idea of what they want. I bet some won’t want to show certain parts. Maybe I’ll suggest my legs or feet; he probably won’t have many of those. Old feet aren’t pretty.”
We talk some more about the installation and other commitments Grandma has for the coming weeks. There are many. She has invitations to dinners and parties; her weekly golf games are starting up soon. There’s so much she’s still engaged in, so much she still thinks about.
As our glasses empty, we start to yawn. Grandma first and then me. We ignore the yawns initially, hiding them with our hands.
“I guess it’s that time again,” says Grandma over the music. “But what a wonderful dinner. And a wonderful day. Thank you.”
“No, thank you, Grandma. You treated. Again.”
“I seem to talk more with you than with anyone. I’m sorry for going on and on. But it’s been so nice to just reminisce this week. To think about old times. It’s amazing what we can remember from so long ago.”
“I like our chats,” I say. “It’s good to talk about these things. It’s good for me.”
“Well, I’m going to take my reading up to bed.”
She smiles again and rocks herself in her seat three or four times. She needs to build this momentum to stand. I rise to help but she’s up before I can give her my hand. She takes it anyway and pulls me in for a hug. I have to bend down low to accept it. I can feel her hand lightly tapping my shoulder blade, over and over.
“Thanks,” she says again. At the door, she turns back. “What was the wine we had tonight?”
“Beaujolais.”
“Oh, right. And what was that drink called again?”
“Southern Comfort,” I say, “with lime juice.”
“Right, Southern Comfort,” she says. “If you’re going to bed, too, then I’ll get the lights out here.”
“Yup, I’ll be headed off soon.”
“Goodnight.”
“Nighty-night.”
I watch her move gingerly over to the lamp. She twists the switch three times in the wrong d
irection, click-click-click, before reversing it, click. The room is dark.
“I’ve had such a wonderful week. I really have,” I hear from the hall. “I’ve been thinking about so many things.”
“Me, too. Have a good sleep, Grandma.”
“You know you don’t have to say that,” she says. “I always do.”
FRIDAY
7:55 a.m.
I WAKE EFFORTLESSLY, minutes before my alarm. I have a stretch, pointing my toes and hands in opposite directions. Despite a dry mouth that gives the impression I nibbled on a late-night bowl of hamster food, I feel well rested and alert. I don’t linger in the sheets, delaying the compulsory, as I do most mornings. I’m up. I’m dressed.
I slept heavily. It was one of those nights that seemed to last for only a minute or two. Sometimes it’s possible to be aware of time even while asleep. Not last night. I have only an obscure recollection of getting up off the couch and finding my way to bed in the dark. Unusually for me, I went straight to sleep. The longer the night feels, the worse the sleep. This was a good sleep, a great one. The night flew by.
It’s in this state, feeling fresh, still basking in post-sleep gusto, that I find Grandma already in the kitchen. I can only see half of her, behind the table. It’s her feet, toes pointing upward, that I see first. Her inert legs are next.
Grandma’s on the floor. She’s flat on her back.
I freeze a few feet from the threshold. My pulse quickens to a higher gear. Most people would rush in right at this moment. I’m still. What I am going to find? I have to go in. She might need help. She might be hurt. I walk skittishly into the kitchen and around the table, which is distorting my view.
“Good morning,” she says, with a beaming grin. Her face appears restored and comfortable; gone is the redness from last night. “How did you sleep?”
