Ready to Fall

by Marcella Pixley

  “Want to go up onstage?” Fish asks us.

  “You guys go,” says Dad.

  “Okay,” says Fish. “But don’t get upset when we’re having a ton of fun without you.”

  She grabs my hand and drags me up onstage.

  That’s when I notice the white scar that snakes below her thumb, across her wrist, and down the inside of her arm.

  She sees me noticing it and smiles. “Long story,” she says, as though she were reading my mind. “If you decide to come here, maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

  Then she pulls me center stage, gets up on her toes, and spins.

  Dad slumps into a chair in the front row and watches us.

  “This place has amazing acoustics,” Fish tells me. “The drama director just announced we’re gonna do Hamlet. We always do a Shakespeare play right before spring break. I’m completely psyched. You want to hear something cool?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Fish stands on her tiptoes, spreads her arms to either side, and screams, “TO BE, OR NOT TO BE: THAT IS THE QUESTION!” at the very top of her lungs. The whole auditorium fills with her voice and you can hear the words bouncing around on the ceiling, echoing faintly at the back of the room.

  “Cool,” I say.

  “Now you try it,” she says.

  “Oh,” I say. “No thanks. I’m not really into being loud.”

  “Come on,” says Fish. “No one’s here but me and your dad. Come on. It’ll feel good. Just do it. Really. It’ll make you happy. I promise. Come on, Max.”

  “Okay,” I say. “But I’m not going to be as loud as you.”

  “That’s okay,” says Fish.

  So I spread out my arms and I stand on my tiptoes and I scream, “TO BE, OR NOT TO BE: THAT IS THE QUESTION!” at the top of my lungs, only my voice cracks and I end up sounding like a drunk donkey reciting Shakespeare, which, I suppose, would have been appropriate if it had been a line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but it’s Hamlet, and as far as I know, there are no donkeys in Hamlet, so when the words reverberate in the auditorium it sounds ridiculous and silly and hilarious and really strange, and all at once I start laughing, without even knowing why. I feel like I might shatter because I haven’t laughed in a million years, and soon Dad is chuckling from the front row and Fish closes her eyes and throws back her head and starts laughing this amazing, alarming, contagious, rollicking belly laugh that makes me and Dad stop short for a second to look at each other, because if we close our eyes, we could almost imagine that Mom is with us, but instead, it’s this strange girl with pink hair, and we look at each other, startled and heartsick, but Fish is still laughing, and her laughter rises to the ceiling like sunlight.

  ASSISTED LIVING FACILITIES HAVE GOOD ICE CREAM

  When the tour is over, Fish whirls us back to the bottom of the stairs that lead to Trowbridge Hall. “I hope you decide to come here,” she tells me. “I think you would really like it.” She shakes Dad’s hand, she shakes my hand (is it my imagination, or does she hang on for just a few seconds longer than she needs to?), and then makes her way up the stone steps. Halfway up, she takes my drawing of Skinner out of her pocket, waves it to me, presses it against her heart, twirls, and then hurries up the remaining steps, where I lose her in the throng of students heading to class.

  I am still thinking about how her hand felt when Dad announces that we’re going right out to Green Meadows Assisted Living Facility to see Grandma.

  When Grandpa Marty died, Grandma moved from their brownstone in Brooklyn to this incredibly tiny apartment at Green Meadows. It looks more like a hotel room than a home. The bedroom only has room for a bed. In the visiting room, there’s a dresser in one corner, a lamp in the other, a ridiculously uncomfortable orange tweed couch for visitors, and a sad little corkboard on the wall where Grandma pins birthday cards and faded pictures of her dwindling family. Mom had asked Grandma to come live with us, but Grandma said no, she would just be in the way. No one wants an old lady farting around the house all day, she said. But I think the real reason she didn’t move in is that it would hurt too much to see her only daughter wasting away. Of course there were visits. Mom would stop at Green Meadows when she still could, and Dad would bring Grandma to our house for dinner every Friday night. We would light Shabbat candles and say the prayers and try to smile across the table at one another, but inside, our hearts were breaking.

  We pull into the parking lot and walk to the front entrance, where Darlene of the voluminous girth waves to us from the desk, buzzes us in, and gives us a polite smile.

  “Oh my,” she says. “Jean will be so happy to see you. How long’s it been?”

  “Too long,” says Dad. “We try to get out here once a week. But things have been tough lately.”

  “Oh sweetie, I know,” says Darlene. “I know all about it. Listen, why don’t you go down and surprise her? She’s in the TV room with the others. Wednesday’s ice cream day.”

  The tumor is giddy. He is hoping for Toffee Bar Crunch.

  If Green Meadows Assisted Living Facility was located in Disneyland, ice cream day would include a pastel room filled with happy, clean, talkative old people, all with full command of their bladders and cognitive abilities. They would be standing around a long table covered with cartons of various colorful ice cream flavors, whipped-cream canisters, squirt bottles of chocolate syrup, and bowls filled with gummy bears and rainbow sprinkles, telling one another stories in genteel English accents.

  But in reality, the room is filled with sad plastic Thanksgiving decorations and old people sitting gaping in front of a television set no one’s watching. Some are in wheelchairs, some are on faded couches. Some people are feeding themselves with white plastic spoons, which is a good sign because it means they know what spoons are for. Others are being fed by caregivers who open their own mouths wide to inspire their charges to do the same.

  Grandma is sitting in an armchair by the window. The sun shines through the curtain and casts a triangle of light across her sleeping face. Her head is tilted back. For a moment, I think she might be dead. But she snores suddenly, a sharp, slurping breath, and I know she’s still with us. Dad and I look at each other with relief and hurry over. I sit on a footstool and Dad pats her knee and rubs her shoulders until she wakes up.

  She stares at us for a moment, blinking, disoriented.

  “Hi Grandma,” I say. “It’s Max.”

  “And it’s me, Joe,” says Dad. “We came for a visit. We wanted to see how you’re doing. How are you doing, Jean? Are you doing okay?”

  “You came for a visit?” says Grandma, blinking.

  We nod and hold her hands.

  She looks over our shoulders toward the door.

  “Did you bring Anna too?” she asks.

  “No, Jean,” says Dad. “Anna died.”

  “Anna died?”

  “Yes,” says my dad. “She had cancer.”

  Grandma shakes her head, as though shaking out cobwebs. Then she wipes her eyes and sits up straighter. “I forgot for a second,” she says incredulously. “I was asleep and dreaming she was alive. And then when you woke me I had forgotten for just a second. People used to say she looked just like me.”

  “She did look like you,” I say. “She had your eyes.”

  “So do you,” says Grandma, reaching out to touch my face.

  We look at each other.

  “I want some ice cream,” says Grandma.

  “I’ll get it,” I tell her.

  I bring three prefilled cups, each with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream, and three white plastic spoons to a table. We sit together and eat our ice cream, letting it drip down our throats. Grandma likes it. She closes her eyes every time she swallows.

  The tumor is disappointed with vanilla. He doesn’t realize that beggars can’t be choosers. Presumptuous colonist. Most polyps and masses would be thrilled to have such delicacies. Yes. I’ll have one cerebral cortex with a tall glass of cerebrospinal fluid, please.
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  “Jean,” says Dad finally. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay,” says Grandma. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “It’s Max.”

  He’s dying of his mother’s cancer.

  “What’s wrong with Max?”

  The tumor has colonized his brain.

  “Well, Max has been having a really hard time since Anna left us,” Dad tells her, his face reddening. “At school, especially. He’s stopped participating in classes and doing homework, and even though I’ve been trying to help him and the school has been trying to help him, he’s failing all his classes.”

  “Failing his classes?” says Grandma. “Max Friedman. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I am,” I say.

  “This is very bad news,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” says Dad. “And I wouldn’t be telling you this—I wouldn’t even be bothering you with it except we’ve found a private school, and we think it would be much better for Max. We visited today and he loves it. Smaller classes. Creative kids. Beautiful campus. It’s called the Baldwin School. We think it would be a perfect place to help Max get back on track.”

  “Good,” says Grandma. “This boy should not be failing classes. I’m disappointed in you, Max.”

  “I’m disappointed in me too,” I whisper.

  “So I had him apply and he wrote an essay and had an interview and took a test and he got in, Jean. Which is really wonderful news because they only take the top kids. And they’re taking Max.”

  “He got in,” says Grandma, looking at me and smiling.

  I nod.

  “Even though he’s been failing,” she says.

  “We’re pretty happy about it,” says Dad. “And we’ve applied for financial aid, which should help with some of the cost. But the thing is, and this is why I’m bothering you with it, if he goes, we need to pay tuition by next week and I don’t have it, Jean. Things are slow in the frame shop right now. I haven’t been doing very many photography jobs since Anna got sick, and I just don’t have it. Normally I wouldn’t ask. You know I wouldn’t ask. Especially at a time like this when we’ve all been through so much. But I was just wondering if you could possibly help us out with this.”

  “Pay for the school?” says Grandma.

  “Yeah,” says Dad. “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “How much is it?” says Grandma.

  I swallow.

  “Thirty,” says Dad.

  “Thirty dollars? You can’t afford thirty dollars?”

  “Thirty thousand,” says Dad. “Thirty thousand dollars a year.”

  Grandma lets go of my hands.

  “Oh my,” she says. “That’s a mint.”

  “Yeah,” says Dad.

  My heart sinks.

  Grandma is quiet for a while. Her eyes are distant. Then she looks at us and smiles. “You know what?” she says.

  “What?” says my dad.

  “Thirty thousand is about how much I pay to stay here. Thirty thousand a year to be surrounded by sick people and strangers. I’d rather spend it on this boy, I can tell you that. But I can’t live here and give it to you. I can’t do both.”

  Dad and I look at each other.

  I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  “What if you come and live with us?” says Dad.

  I’m grinning. I can’t help it.

  “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” says Grandma, trying to stop herself from smiling. “I’m an old woman and I can’t take more disappointments.”

  “I mean it,” says Dad. His eyes are teary, and I have to look away to stop from getting teary myself.

  “I don’t want to be in the way,” says Grandma.

  “You won’t be,” says Dad.

  “You think we can just walk out of this place?”

  “I don’t know,” says Dad. “I can talk to Darlene at the front desk and find out how we go about it. I’m sure there’s paperwork and things like that.”

  “Can I pack?” asks Grandma.

  “Sure,” says Dad. “Max, help your grandma pack.”

  I take her arm and we walk with slow steps down the hall to her apartment.

  She drags a suitcase from under her bed and begins taking things out of her drawers. Nightgowns. Blouses. Slacks. Pullovers. Comfortable shoes. There aren’t many things that belong to her in this tiny place.

  In no time, the drawers are empty and the suitcase is full. The last thing to go is a framed black-and-white picture of Grandma and Mom on the dresser. Grandma is beautiful and young and Mom is a little girl in a white dress. They have their arms around each other and they are laughing. You can tell, because Mom is throwing back her head the way she always used to do, and Grandma is smiling so wide it looks like her whole face is a sunrise. I show her the picture of the two of them, the woman and the girl. Forty years before tragedy. Grandma kisses the photograph and puts it in the suitcase facedown.

  “Come on, Grandma,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

  DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

  We move Grandma into the guest bedroom, which she has always loved because it’s where she used to sleep when she came to take care of us. First when I was a newborn, then when Mom had her surgery, and then when Mom was so sick from chemo she couldn’t be home by herself. The second time around, Mom was too far gone for chemo, Grandma was in Green Meadows, and the guest room remained empty. The walls are yellow, the way they’ve always been, with the same little white dresser that used to belong to Grandma when she was a kid, so she says it feels like home.

  We love hearing her shuffling footsteps and seeing her hunched form sitting in the living room with the newspaper, or at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. The house has been so empty lately, and there’s something about Grandma that makes us think maybe a little bit of Mom is still around. So we treat her gently. When she talks, we strain our ears just in case a remnant of Mom’s voice is still in there somewhere, a timbre, a note, a turn of phrase that will prove to us she is not entirely gone.

  On Thanksgiving, no one’s really up for the fuss, so Dad picks up three ready-made turkey dinners from Stop and Shop, each in its own cardboard tray with dividers for stuffing, mashed potatoes, gelatinous cranberry sauce, and corn. He lights a candle, and we sit at the kitchen table together while the light flickers across our faces. We try to smile at each other. We tell each other it’s delicious. When the meal is over, Grandma excuses herself and goes upstairs. Most nights, she goes up to her room early, but I’m not sure she gets much sleep. I hear her slippered feet padding around the house in the middle of night, from the guest room to the bathroom and back.

  * * *

  Sunday night I’m lying awake in my bed with my sketchbook, trying not to think about second chances and trying even harder to ignore the tumor, who has decided that this is a good night to take up tap dancing. I hate tap dancing. There’s a hesitant knock on my door, and before I have the chance to tell her I’m trying to sleep, Grandma shuffles in wearing her pink slippers and her long flannel nightgown. She stands in front of my bed and stares at me. “You’re awake,” she says. “It’s almost midnight. You should be sleeping.”

  “I have a headache,” I tell her.

  Grandma kisses my forehead.

  I lean my head back on my pillows. The tumor is Irish step dancing across my cerebral cortex. He has invited a hundred of his best friends to join him. Everyone is wearing spandex and those horrible clomping shoes. Good lord. I close my eyes and then open them again, hoping this will draw the curtain, but the show must go on. More tumors march out from the wings. They march down the center aisle. They fly in on ropes. It is a cast of thousands.

  Grandma lowers herself down onto my bed. She’s so small, it doesn’t even shift with her weight. She is almost not there at all.

  She closes my sketchbook, kisses me on the forehead, and runs a gnarled hand through my hair. “You look so much like Anna. Isn’t that amazi
ng? Oh, I could just tickle you until your mom jumps out.”

  Grandma tickles her fingers up and down my arm.

  This excites the tumor and his dancing friends, who link arms and begin doing the cancan in unison across my frontal lobe.

  Quiet down, crazy tumors. If I don’t get some rest, I’m going to be a mess tomorrow.

  I yawn tremendously.

  Grandma kisses my forehead again. “Sleep,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say. “You too.”

  Grandma winks at me. She rises from the bed and makes her way back to the door.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” she says.

  It’s my mother’s voice.

  “I love you too,” I whisper.

  The door closes. Her footsteps shuffle back to the guest room.

  The tumors are shaking the stage with their clomping so I put in my earbuds and try to disappear into my favorite track on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I curl myself into a ball and pull the covers up over my head. I listen to that lady at the end of “The Great Gig in the Sky” singing her famous musical orgasm. She does these crazy, slow, soul riffs that swell and soar and get faster and louder and higher and louder and faster until they explode and shudder and purr and whisper and sigh and snuggle.

  The tap dancing behind my eyes is driving me mad, so I turn the music up and roll onto my back with the lady whispering the end of her orgasm, and resolving, as they say in the world of music theory, pun intended, resolving into this gorgeous sustained chord, but the thought of her satisfaction makes me thoroughly depressed because of my own nonexistent love life and the relative unlikeliness that I will ever make a girl sound remotely as happy as the lady singing her glory into my ears, so I turn the music off and lie there, my pounding head on the pillow and the earbuds nestled in my ears like little turtles and the plastic-coated wire leading to nothing.