by Ellen Oh
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he says. “Medicine has advanced a lot, and people can definitely recover from strokes, but there’s no guarantee that they won’t have another one. We have to make sure Grandpa takes better care of himself.”
Justin sees how worried I am, and he pats me on the head, which I hate. “He’s going to be okay. Just wait and see, Junie.”
He sounds so confident. I wish I could be, but the depression voice is thinking terrible things. I blink hard and shake my head. I won’t let it overwhelm me. I repeat positive words and tell myself he is going to be fine. Over and over to drown out the negative voice.
I think back to all the times I’ve heard Grandma nag at him about his blood pressure and not eating too much salt. I always thought she was being mean for limiting his favorite salted nuts, but she was trying to keep him healthy. I vow to myself to help her from now on.
The next day at school, I’m not really focused. My friends and teachers all know what’s happened to Grandpa, and everyone is very kind. I just want to get through the day and go see him. That’s really all I can think about.
After school, my dad picks me up and takes me straight to the hospital. Justin has a game, so he’s supposed to come later, after dinner. In Grandpa’s room, I see my uncle Paul. He’s tall and lanky and looks like a male version of my mom.
“Junie, sweetheart!” He gives me a big hug. “How’s my favorite only niece in the whole wide world doing?”
“I’m fine, Uncle Paul. Just worried about Grandpa.”
Uncle Paul strokes my hair gently and smiles down at me. “I know how close you are to him,” he whispers. “He couldn’t have a better granddaughter than you.”
After Mom hugs me hello, Grandma shoos my parents out. “Go take your wife out for dinner! She needs a break!”
My mom seems reluctant to go and looks at me uncertainly. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be here with Grandpa.”
Grandpa waves a weak hand at them to go.
“We’ll come back with Justin after dinner, then,” Mom says. She kisses me on the forehead and leaves with my dad.
I sit by Grandpa’s side, and Uncle Paul sits on the other side of the bed next to Grandma and has his arms around her.
“Hi, Grandpa!”
“Juuuuunie-ah!” He smiles his lopsided smile. He asks me a question in Korean, and I understand it.
Before anyone can translate it for me, I say, “School was fine! I did all my homework in class, so I don’t have anything to do but spend time with you.”
“Oh, Junie, you understand some Korean! So impressive,” Uncle Paul says as he gives me a fist bump across Grandpa’s bed. “That’s better than me, I admit it!”
Grandpa speaks again. It’s slightly garbled but Grandma understands him clearly.
“Dad says it’s not too late to learn, Paul.”
Uncle Paul rolls his eyes, but I lean forward eagerly. “I want to learn! Can you teach me, Grandma?”
She looks surprised and then happy. “I’m happy to, but you should also take lessons. There’s a Korean-language school that is based in our church. We can sign you up to take Korean class with kids your age.”
“Juuuunie-ahhhh!” Grandpa says excitedly.
“He’s so happy that you want to learn Korean,” Grandma says.
There’s a tugging on my jacket sleeve. Grandpa puts out a shaky hand, his pinky pointing out at me. “Yaksok?”
I nod and make a pinky promise with him. “Yes, Grandpa, I promise.”
Uncle Paul smiles at me. “I always hated Korean school, but I bet you’ll do really well, Junie!”
“I’ll do it for Grandpa,” I say. “So I’ll understand him always.”
His grip on my hand is tighter than it was yesterday. The twinkle in my grandpa’s eyes now glimmers with the extra sheen of tears.
AT SCHOOL, THE DIVERSE VOICES club is gathering more members. It’s nice to see that there are some students signing up who just want to show their support. Every week we’ve had at least fifty members show up, and it has been great. Ms. Simon starts off each meeting reminding everyone that it is a safe and supportive place for people to be honest and open, but that anyone who is not respectful will immediately be asked to leave. We’ve had no issues. I’ve really enjoyed our meetings, and it has given me a chance to interview more students for our video.
We are three weeks away from the presentation. The plan is that Patrice and Hena will introduce the club and the rest of us, and then I will introduce the video. But I don’t want to. I just don’t know how to tell them that.
I’m almost finished with the video. It’s twelve minutes long, and I want to edit it down to ten minutes, but I think it’s pretty good. I’m anxious to share it with the others, and if they like it, I want to show my grandfather. He’s still not feeling well. My mom thinks it’s because he’s in a hospital, and she thinks he’d be safer at home. Which I think is kind of weird. It’s a hospital—you go there to get better, not sicker.
I need Grandpa to get better so he can come home and help me finish my oral history project. Even though it’s not due until the end of the semester, I decide that I’ll finish off a first draft, so my grandparents can see how good the video is. And just maybe Grandma will agree to record her story for me also.
Mom picks me up after school, and I ask her if I can go home first and go see Grandpa after dinner.
“That works out,” she says. “I wanted to make some soup and rice for Grandpa anyway.”
“Homemade?” I ask dubiously.
Mom gives me an exasperated look. “It’s that kit I got from the Korean market. The ones you guys raved about.”
“Oh, the restaurant one? Awesome!” When we were in New York, we found that our favorite restaurant had a soup-starter base that would replicate its famous soup at home. Even my mom couldn’t mess it up.
As she prepares dinner, I try to finalize the edits to my oral history project, but Mom finishes cooking before I’m done. I decide I’ll work on it tomorrow.
Mom packs up a lot of food to take to the hospital. “Your grandma and Uncle Paul must be so tired of hospital food.” She packs the containers into a large insulated bag. “I know I am.”
“Can I eat my dinner now?” I ask. I hate eating at the hospital. The smell kills my appetite.
I quickly mix a bowl of rice into the spicy tofu soup my mom made and gulp it down. I’m so hungry I’m barely chewing my food. As soon as I’m done, my mom and I head to the car so we can leave for the hospital.
When I see Grandpa, I’m alarmed. He doesn’t look good.
“Mom, did he eat his dinner?” my mom asks Grandma.
“He ate very little,” she replies. “He keeps shaking his head and tightening his lips. I think it’s because the hospital food tastes so bad, but he’s not allowed to eat anything else.”
Grandma looks tired. She stands up and takes the bag of food my mom brought.
“Why don’t we have a change of scenery and go eat in the lounge,” she says. “Junie, since you ate already, will you keep your grandfather company?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
Uncle Paul looks at me with uncertainty. “You sure you’ll be all right alone, hon? I can stay with you if you want.”
I look at his tired face. He’s been sleeping on the short little armchair at the hospital, even though Mom told him to come stay at our house. I shake my head. “I’ll be fine! You should definitely get some fresh air, Uncle Paul.”
He ruffles my hair. “Call me if you need anything.”
As soon as he leaves, I scooch closer to Grandpa. His eyes are closed. I don’t talk, just let him sleep. Several minutes later, he opens his eyes. When he spots me, he smiles.
“Junie-ah, waseo?”
It takes me a moment to remember that waseo means “you came.”
“Grandpa, how are you feeling today?”
“Gwaenchana,” he says.
“You don’t look okay,” I say, eyeing him
worriedly.
“Gwaenchana, gwaenchana,” he repeats. As if saying okay twice really makes everything fine.
“Junie-ah,” Grandpa starts. Then he says something in Korean, and I have no idea what he said.
My face must show my confusion because Grandpa strains himself to say something more.
“Please . . . promise . . .”
It’s pretty garbled, and his lips are trembling with effort, but I can understand what he is saying.
“Grandpa, you’re speaking English!”
I’m so excited that his English returned. That has to mean he’s doing better!
“Grandpa! What is it? You want me to promise something?”
He nods with effort and stumbles over his words. “L-l-look.”
“Look?” I repeat.
“Af-af-after Gr-gr—” His face is so contorted by his effort to speak.
“Look after?” I’m trying to help him.
“Gra-gran-grand . . .”
“Grandma?”
“Mm.”
“You want me to look after Grandma?”
He nods slightly.
“P-p-p-prom-ise . . . take care . . . Grandma . . .” Drops of sweat are beading on his forehead.
“Yes, Grandpa. I’ll always take care of Grandma.” I take his pinky in mine and shake it gently. “Yaksok.”
His face relaxes and his lopsided smile flashes. “Good . . . girl.”
I try to relax also. He spoke English again. That’s supposed to mean he’s getting better, but then why am I so anxious? Grandpa’s face is so pale now. I wish Mom were back so I could ask her to ask the doctor. I want to talk to him, but his eyes are closed, and he seems to be sleeping. I’m so anxious I stare at his face and check constantly to make sure he’s breathing.
When the others come back, I tell them how strange he seemed but that he spoke English. Grandma tries to wake him, but he seems deep asleep.
“Maybe we should call the doctor,” I say.
“Don’t worry, Junie. The doctor will stop by later tonight. I’ll ask him then,” Grandma says. “Sasha, go and take Junie home. It’s getting late.”
I’m reluctant to leave. Something makes me want to stay longer. Mom gently steers me out as Uncle Paul and Grandma wave at us. “I’ll be back soon,” Mom tells them, and we head home. I can’t shake this weird crampy feeling deep in my gut. It kind of hurts, and makes me think I have to go to the bathroom. But it also scares me.
“Don’t worry, Junie,” Mom says. “I’ll drop you off and go back to find the doctor. We’ll take care of him.”
Even though her words reassure me, the weirdness is still there. When I get home, I work on Grandpa’s video until very late at night, but I find myself thinking of more questions I have for him. I want to know more about his life. I think of all the times I didn’t go to my grandfather’s in order to work on the diversity project instead, and I regret them all.
There’s a knock on my door, and I look up to see my dad walk in.
“Go to sleep, Junie,” he says as he strokes my hair. “Tomorrow is still a school day.”
I wake up several times during the night from a nightmare where I’m trapped in a glass room. I can see everyone outside my window, but they can’t see or hear me, even though I’m banging my whole body against the wall.
The alarm finally rings, and I get ready.
I go down to breakfast and see Dad packing lunches. Justin is shoveling cereal in his mouth like he’s plowing snow. He’s not even swallowing his first bite; he’s just filling his mouth so he looks like a bloated chipmunk. Once the last bite is gone, he grins at me, snatches up his schoolbag, and takes off. I sit down and reach for the cereal and pour out nothing but sugar dust. Justin has eaten the last of the Chocolate Frosted Flakes.
I growl, which makes my dad laugh. He opens the door under the sink and pulls out a new box of cereal from behind the bag that stores all the other plastic bags. Don’t ask me why they do that. I know it’s weird.
With a happy sigh I open the box and pour a new bowl of cereal. My dad’s the best.
“Yes, I know,” he says, as if he can read my thoughts. “I hide stuff from Justin all the time; otherwise he will eat everything.”
Holding a finger to his lips, he moves the bag of plastic bags and shows me his hidden stash of Doritos (Justin’s favorite), gingerbread cookies (my favorite), caramel popcorn (Mom’s favorite), and a big bag of mini chocolates (my dad’s kryptonite).
“You have my permission to help yourself to whatever you want, as long as you promise not to tell Justin or your mom,” he says with a grin.
I can’t help but laugh, and for the time being the weird feeling that’s been bothering me is gone.
At school, I’m distracted. All I can think about is going to the hospital and showing Grandpa my school-project video. During lunch, when my friends are discussing all the aspects of the coming assembly, I can barely focus. That sick sensation is back in my stomach. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Someone is calling my name. I look up and see Ms. Simon’s serious, sad expression.
“Junie, please grab your things and come to the office with me,” she says in a soft voice that frightens me. “Your father is waiting for you.”
I slowly pack up my lunch bag and wave goodbye to my friends, who are all looking at me with similar expressions of concern. The walk to the office feels endless and yet suddenly I’m there and I can see my dad’s face and I finally know what the sick feeling has meant.
“Grandpa?” I whisper.
He nods and folds me into his embrace. “He passed this morning.”
The words crush my heart. I should’ve finished my project sooner. I should’ve have spent more time with Grandpa.
I don’t even remember walking to the car. My brother is crying in the front seat. We don’t say a word to each other the entire ride. Dad tries to say something, but I can’t hear him. I feel like I’m trapped inside my own head. The world is muted except for this loud buzzing in my ears. I am muted. I can’t hear anything, and they can’t hear me screaming.
Mom’s not home. I go straight to my room and turn on my dad’s laptop. I want to see Grandpa’s face. Some extra footage of Grandpa that I didn’t use is left open on the screen. I click on the first one.
“Aren’t you tired of hearing me talk, Junie?” Grandpa asks.
“Never!” my voice responds.
He’s here. I see his smiling face, hear his deep voice. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s not gone. Not my grandfather. He can’t be. I haven’t finished recording my project with him. There’s still too much to do. He can’t leave me.
“Junie-ah, let’s take a break and raid the kitchen for some sweets!”
“Okay, Grandpa!”
I’m staring at the screen, frozen on Grandpa’s face. I don’t believe he is gone. I can’t. I just saw him yesterday. He was supposed to get better and come home. He’s not supposed to die yet.
My chest hurts so much I can’t breathe. But I don’t cry. I can’t cry. It feels like something is broken inside me. I feel like I’m broken.
“JUNIE-AH!”
“Grandpa!”
I open my eyes and I am all alone. But I swear I’ve heard my grandfather’s voice, as clear as a bell. At those moments, I think there must be something wrong with me. Because this new life without Grandpa doesn’t feel real.
In my home, everything seems normal except for the mood. My whole family is hurting, but I can’t focus on anyone’s pain. Mine is too much to bear. I feel both overwhelmed with emotion and completely empty.
At the funeral home, I am sure that this is all just a bad dream. That I will wake up and hear Grandpa calling me to him.
“Junie-ah!”
It’s not my grandpa; it’s my great-aunt who came from Korea. My grandpa’s older sister Yuni, who looks at me with Grandpa’s eyes.
“Junie-ah, I haven’t seen you since you were a baby,” she says in Korean.
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I bow and let her hug me, but I don’t speak.
I keep getting looks from people at the funeral and then at the burial site. Everyone’s crying but me. I’m like a robot. I show no emotions. I nod. I shake my head. I point. I can communicate simple things. But I’m incapable of answering anything more than a yes or no. I am numb.
Pain makes everything hard. It’s hard to wake up, it’s hard to move, it’s hard to eat, it’s hard to exist in my space that feels like it’s shrinking more and more until it’s choking me and I wake up gasping for air and realize I’m still in my nightmare.
The depression voice has taken over my head. It tells me how stupid I am. How utterly useless for not letting anyone know how worried I was. How much time I wasted on school and friends instead of being with my grandfather. How disappointed I am in myself. How angry I am at Grandpa for dying. My brain is swirling nonstop with thoughts and feelings that I can’t control. The voice in my head won’t shut up. So I just stop talking.
“Junie, your parents have told me that you’ve not spoken a word since your grandfather passed,” my therapist says. “It’s been four days. I’m here for you whenever you feel like sharing with me.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about anything. I feel bad for my mom. She’s lost her dad, and she also has to worry about her daughter’s depression again. I feel bad, but I can’t help her. I can’t help myself.
“Have you been taking your meds, Junie?”
I nod. My dad gives them to me every morning.
“I know it probably doesn’t feel like it’s helping, but I’m sure it is. It’s keeping you from being far more depressed under the circumstances.”
That makes sense. I can still get out of bed. Still eat a meal, even if it’s tasteless. Still do things, even if I don’t want to. I just don’t want to feel anything anymore.
“It’s okay, Junie,” Rachel says to me. “You don’t have to talk to me. You can just sit here and play with toys or draw a picture.”
In front of me is a drawing pad. Without thinking, I decide to draw. At the end of the session, Rachel looks at my picture and smiles.
