Jess and the Runaway Grandpa
by Mary Woodbury
Talkingstick Press
This revised edition of Jess and the Runaway Grandpa is published by:
Talkingstick Press
#404, 10319 – 111 Street
Edmonton, AB T5K 0A2
Copyright (c) Mary Woodbury 2011. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior permission from the publisher.
Originally published in 1997 by Coteau Books.
Editor: Barbara Sapergia
Cover art and design by Robert Woodbury
Original photography by Debbie Parsons
Models for cover: Natalia Young and Bill Freed
ISBN: 978-0-9868347-1-4
Lyric excerpts of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, (c) 12945 Williamson Music. Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission. All rights Reserved.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 – Orange Socks
Chapter 2 – On the School Bus
Chapter 3 – Ernie in the Morning
Chapter 4 – Ernie Makes Plans
Chapter 5 – Water Bombs
Chapter 7 – Brian, the Deputy
Chapter 8 – Where Are We Going?
Chapter 9 – The Old School
Chapter 10 – Keep the Home Fires Burning
Chapter 11 – In the Woods
Chapter 12 – Ernie Forgets
Chapter 13 – The Hunt Begins
Chapter 14 – Setting up Camp
Chapter 15 – Brian, the Hunter
Chapter 16 – Jess Faces Trouble
Chapter 17 – Brian, the Investigator
Chapter 18 – Ernie Awake at Night
Chapter 19 – Night Fright
Chapter 20 – Jess Goes Fishing
Chapter 21 – Jess Thinks Things Through
Chapter 22 – Brian Finds a Clue
Chapter 23 – Jess Makes a Tough Decision
Chapter 24 – Brian Leads the Way
Chapter 25 – Ernie in the Boat
Chapter 26 – Jess Gives Her Best
Chapter 27 – Look Homeward
Chapter 28 – In the Hospital
I dedicate this book to Greg and
Janelle Caldwell, and the thousands
of children who know first-hand
what it is like to lose a
grandparent to Alzheimer’s.
With thanks to Colleen Hefferman
and her students in
Smith and Athabasca.
Without their interest and encouragement
this book might have gone out of print
permanently.
Ten percent of the price of each book sold
goes to the Alzheimer’s Society of Canada.
Chapter 1 – Orange Socks
The day after her cat Midas died Jessie Baines put on a pair of orange socks. It didn’t matter that they didn’t match her bright purple track suit or her lime green sports bag or her worn white sneakers with purple laces. What mattered was remembering Midas.
Midas had been one terrific pet. A ball of golden fuzz when they had picked him up at the SPCA, he had grown into an impressive giant. On that first day when the kitten’s tiny, sharp, pins-and-needles claws had kneaded Jess’s arm leaving marks, her dad had chuckled, “That kitten has the Midas touch. He changes everything he touches.”
“But my arm hasn’t turned to gold, Daddy,” Jess had retorted, being a lippy six year old at the time. Now, six years later; Midas, the huge purring orange machine, had been run over by a speeding half-ton, and would only live in Jess’s memory. That’s where her dad lived too. He’d moved East shortly after Midas had arrived.
Jess and her mom, Naomi Baines, held a memorial service for the cat in the back yard by the cedar deck. The vet gave them Midas’s remains in a Cougar winter boots box. Ernie and Ruth Mather, their old friends from next door, and Brian Dille and his dad Sonny, from down the street, came to the funeral.
Everyone shared stories of Midas except Ernie, who was losing his memory. He stood silent, grey head bowed, rocking back and forth slightly, humming a hymn. Ruth had a black bulky sweater wrapped around her sturdy compact body. Her arthritis complained on damp days.
“Remember how he chased magpies in the yard,” Ruth sniffed. “Caught some, too.”
Jess could remember showing Midas off proudly to the Mathers when she was young. They’d made a big fuss of her and the cat. They always had. Back then she’d called them Grandma and Grandpa. Her real ones were distant in more ways than miles, as her mom said. The Mathers had adopted all of them. Especially after the Bainses had bought the house next door.
“The firemen had to rescue him from Mathers’ elm tree once,” Brian added. “He was not a damsel but just dismal in distress.”
Jess glared at Brian from under lowered eyelids. Couldn’t the clown be serious for one minute?
“He had the loudest purr of all the cats on the block,” Sonny Dille sighed.
“He loved green olives.” Naomi shoveled clay and sand onto the boot box. The dirt thudded on the cardboard. The smell of damp, turned earth, and early crab-apple blossoms filled the air. Jess squeezed her stinging eyes shut and pictured Midas eating olives.
“Without the pits,” Jess whispered.
They sang “Memories” from the Musical Cats. Naomi led the chorus with her husky alto voice. Tears made two thin rivers down her plump cheeks. She wiped them away leaving a smudge of dirt on her chin. Jess was tempted to take a Kleenex, dampen it, and wash her mother’s face for her. Naomi cared so much for every living thing. She worked too hard, Ruth Mather said. That was why Jess had to be a big girl and help. Answer the phone, take messages, make sure Naomi ate good food. One of Jess’s friends at school had said she envied Jess because she had a mom that was more like a big sister who loved pets, and lots of moms didn’t.
Poor Midas. Everything Jess thought about reminded her of the cat.
“What are we celebrating?” Ernie’s white hair blew in the stiff May breeze. He was wearing his blue windbreaker and matching polyester blue pants. Silver-rimmed glasses perched on his long pale nose. A grey stubble of a beard sprouted on his prominent chin. His cheeks were smooth and pink, but his neck and hands were wrinkled. He had too much skin for the size of his skeleton. Never a big man, Ernie had shrunk since he retired – either that or Jess had grown really fast.
Jess shivered like someone was walking on her grave. Poor Ernie, he’d been like a grandpa, a really great grandpa. Now he was more like a kid. It scared her when he didn’t remember who she was. She wanted to scream at him when he did dumb things. Jess’s eyes filled with tears. She took the cat’s stuffed mouse with its chewed tail and missing eye out of her pocket and tossed it onto the cat’s coffin. Everyone else threw some earth into the hole. Her mother planted a rosebush, the sweat joining the tears and the smudges of clay on her flushed face. They all hugged each other, except for Brian and Jess. The two of them stood awkwardly for a moment, hands by their sides. Jess cried silently, mopping her tears with a hankie that Ruth had passed her.
“Midas had a great life.” Ruth patted Jess’s hand. “He died running. I don’t think he would have wanted it any other way.”
“It’s been a purr-fect afternoon for an interment,” Brian said. “Too bad Grandpa Ernie missed it all.” He rolled his eyes skyward. Jess wanted to bop him on the head. What an insensitive clod he’d turned out to be.
She couldn’t talk as they filed into the house for tea, cheese and crackers, and green olives without the pits. She couldn’t say that
it wasn’t just for Midas she was crying. It was for Ernie and maybe a little for herself. It was as if one bad thing happening reminded her of every other bad thing that had ever happened. Human beings were “complicated critters,” like Grandpa Ernie had said when he was a proper grownup.
After everyone left Jess went upstairs and ransacked her dresser until she found the orange socks. She’d only worn them a few times, because they were so loud. Her mother bought them for gymnastics cool-downs and they were loose and baggy and wrinkled and soft and wonderful. Bright and cheerful, like Midas. Jess didn’t want to forget Midas. She wouldn’t forget him if she wore those socks.
he next morning Jess sat on the front porch waiting for the school bus. The chill from last night’s frost seeped through her oversized bluejean jacket and jeans. She shivered. The smell of wet earth and rotting vegetation filled the air. Spring was taking a long time coming.
Jess pushed a long strand of blondish hair out of her blue-green eyes and bent to pull the orange socks up her skinny freckled legs and over the bottom of her jeans. One of her bony elbows cracked. Her lime-green-and-black sports bag lay open beside her.
“I never saw a kid who carried so much garbage,” her mom said as she locked the front door. “Isn’t that bag getting heavy? What is it – your arctic survival kit?”
“I don’t like surprises.” I wouldn’t talk, Mom, about carrying too much stuff, Jess thought, eyeing her mother’s overflowing briefcase.
“Didn’t I see you putting a sewing kit in there this morning? A sewing kit? I’ve never seen you sew anything in your life.”
“That hunchbacked old lady that always sings ‘You are my Sunshine’ gave it to me. She thanked me for being a good nurse.”
“That’s Mabel Teasdale. She’s ninety-nine.” Naomi Baines worked for Home Care Services in Edmonton. Saturdays Jess went with her to visit the local Seniors lodge. Naomi loved all her old people. She often visited the frail ones she had helped when they could still live on their own. She liked to ease their transition to living in an institution, she said. Loyalty ranked high on Jess’s mom’s list of priorities. It made Jess feel pretty secure.
“What a funny kid!” Naomi shook her frizzy blond hair and tied an escaping purple-patterned scarf around her throat. She reached down with her chubby arm, picked up her brimming briefcase, and headed for the garage. “What’s with the wild orange socks? They don’t match anything else you’ve got on.”
Mom didn’t wait for an answer. If Naomi Baines had a bumper sticker on her old green Volvo it would read, “Have you bugged your kid today?” Jess chewed her lip, peered down the street watching for the bus.
She reached into her sports bag for some gum, humming a few bars from “Memories.” One side pocket had first aid supplies – band-aids, gauze, mosquito repellent, sunscreen, scissors, nail file, tweezers, and burn, bite and sore muscle ointments. Now old Miss Teasdale’s sewing kit was nestled in there too. The other side pocket had food supplies: gum (two flavors, cinnamon and peppermint), candy bars, cough drops, fruit strips, and granola bars. In the front pocket she had a compass and a Swiss Army knife that her dad had left behind, a pen, pencil, pencil sharpener, and a pad of paper. Her notebook and Math text were inside. She unwrapped a stick of peppermint gum, folded it in half, and popped it in her mouth.
A continuous line of traffic flowed along the Whitemud Drive, the freeway half a block away. The man across the street scraped ice from his windshield. Brian Dille stood at the other end of the block tapping his left foot impatiently, waiting for the school bus. His black numbered t-shirt, sweat pants, and tawny skin made him look like a short football player. His dad came from one of the Caribbean islands, his mom from some small town outside of Calgary. A black curly mop of hair covered Brian’s head. His sparkling black eyes hardly showed under the head of hair. Too bad he had became such a clown, such a dummy. This year he had started hanging out with the bullies and macho midgets in their class. He giggled like a maniac every time one of them managed to tease a girl or made a fuss in the classroom. Jess had let him come to Midas’s funeral for old times’ sake, that was all. Even then he had to open his big mouth.
The school bus pulled around the corner and stopped for Brian. Jess sighed, thinking of old times, collected her bag and started down the walk. Just then the side door of the Mather house burst open.
“David? Yvonne, where are you? It’s time for school, kids.” Ernie Mather hollered in the direction of the street and then turned towards the back lane, “We don’t want to be late now.” His white hair stood out from his pinkish skull like feathers. He wore a blue terry housecoat, flannel pajamas, and broken-down leather slippers. He looked like a skinny wizard, searching his pockets for magic potions. He walked toward the white clapboard garage, turned and walked back towards the house, checked the side door, locked it, and headed towards the garage again. He stood in the middle of the laneway, teetering back and forth on his heels and toes, hesitating.
The bus pulled up and the door wheezed open.
Jess waved at the driver. She picked up her bag. “Go back in the house, Ernie.”
“Oh, there you are, Yvonne. Time for school.”
“I’m Jess. I’m your neighbour.”
“Is that your bus?” Ernie stood in the laneway, the belt on his terry robe slipping. He looked puzzled. “I’m not ready yet.”
“You don’t have to go, Ernie. You’re retired.”
The bus driver honked. Jess didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t very well leave Ernie standing there like a helpless child, his thin blue-veined hands reaching out to her.
Thank goodness, Ruth came from behind the house wiping her hands on her red sweat suit top, leaving traces of dirt from the compost bin. She shook her head. “What are we going to do with you, Ernie Mather? I thought you were vacuuming the rugs. I suppose you’ve locked the door on us….”
Chapter 2 – On the School Bus
Too bad about Ernie.” Brian leaned across the aisle of the bus. “Imagine him asking what we were celebrating at the funeral. Poor old guy. Grandpa Ernie’s gone gaga. I call him the gaga geezer.” Brian dropped his mouth open, hung his tongue loose, wiggled his head and rolled his eyes.
“You are so gross, Brian. Besides, he was never your grandpa.” Jess’s face reddened, her voice was shrill. She craned her neck to watch as Ruth and Ernie moved toward their front door. Ruth was guiding Ernie by the elbow, nattering away at him.
The bus pulled away from the curb.
“Ernie was so my grandpa. He acted as father of the bride at my mom and dad’s wedding.”
“That was only because your mom nursed with Grandma Ruth. But my dad and the Mather’s kids were buddies in junior high. Ruth helped deliver me. The Mathers are my godparents. Ruth and Ernie looked after me when I was a baby. That’s why my folks bought the house next door. The Mathers needed a grandkid, because their kids didn’t give them any. I’m it, not you.”
“Ruth looked after me too.”
“So, Ruth’s been your babysitter. That’s not the same. Ernie’s known me all my life.” Jess could feel tears gathering. Stupid Brian. He could still get to her. Why did he have to change into a smart aleck?
“Ernie used to take both of us fishing, remember.” Brian’s voice sounded sad.
Jess glanced over her shoulder. For a moment she stared at Brian, wishing she could talk to him, wondering if she could share with him how scared and worried she was. Her foot hit her survival kit-sports bag, reminding her of how equipped she was for any emergency. She didn’t need anyone else, especially not Brian, not the way he turned everything into a joke, even Ernie’s illness.
“That was before you beame a clown.” Jess stood. “I’m going to move.”
“There’s no other seats, Jess,” Brian whispered. “You’re stuck with me.”
Jess slumped in her seat and tried to ignore him. She pulled her orange socks up and rebuckled the side pockets of her sports bag. Maybe this bag really was
getting too heavy, maybe she had too much in it, like her mom said. But she needed this stuff to survive.
You never knew when bad things might happen. It was good to be prepared. But some things you couldn’t prepare for, it seemed, no matter how well you packed your bag. There was a lump in her throat as big as a ping-pong ball. Great cats shouldn’t die. Friends shouldn’t turn into clowns. Old people shouldn’t lose their memories.
Brian poked her shoulder as the bus pulled up in front of the school. “Better watch it, Jess. You’re somewhere in la-la land, absent-minded as old Ernie.”
Jess shuddered as the words hit her. She draped her heavy sports bag over her right shoulder, pushed past Brian, and hurried off the bus. She dodged through the line of kids and a gaggle of younger students by the side door and headed towards the bathroom. Her sneakers went plunkety-plunkety on the polished tile floor. The purple door to the girls’ washroom squeaked as she opened it.
Jess ran water over her hands and splashed some on her face. She listened to the gurgle and splash and imagined sitting quietly by the side of a river or a lake, fishing with the old Grandpa Ernie and the younger Brian. She let the warm water run over her hands until she calmed down. Jess had memories heavier than her sports bag with its strained seams. It felt as if her insides might split from the weight.
The washroom smelled of disinfectant and years of kids hanging around. The closed-in smell made Jess feel sick to her stomach. She pushed open the door.
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