by Leigh Kramer
Less than an hour later I settled in a back row as the music started.
Every lyric, every refrain pierced me with reminders that Gram was dying. I could not fathom why this had happened to us. As if we hadn’t suffered enough. I’d never know the answer and this left me angry and raw. Emotions rushed through me with each song and I was glad to stare ahead toward the projected words. I was afraid of what I might say otherwise.
I went through the motions, as if this Sunday didn't look any different from the previous times I’d attended. Focus eluded me and I regretted coming.
I did not want to lose Gram.
Tears seeped through no matter how valiantly I tried to prevent them. There weren’t any answers here. When the worship team reassembled for a closing song, I slipped on my sunglasses and quietly left the service before any of my friends could approach. At least they saw me there. I needed to calm down before heading to Mom's.
I sat in my car for a few moments. Even though traffic was unlikely this time of day and even though I did not want to spend more time than necessary with my family, I left for Geneva. The drive would afford me time to reflect, as well as prepare me for the incoming interrogation.
* * *
“Leave it to OJ to steal the show,” Ian crowed as I walked in the back door. I deposited my coffee cup in the trash, evidence of how I'd spent the extra time.
“I wish you guys would stop calling me that,” I grumbled before making the round of hugs.
My sister-in-law Laura laughed indulgently at her husband before chiding him. I didn't know what she saw in my goofy twenty-eight-year old brother, but he had grown up at least a little bit since marrying her a couple of years ago. We could all be grateful for that.
Scott appeared around the corner with his fiancée Paige. Both of my younger brothers would marry before me but I hadn't done much by way of procuring a husband up to this point. Scott and Paige would marry in June, hopefully with Gram in attendance. Mom was already working on contingencies if Gram did not feel up to it. There couldn’t be a better distraction for her.
“Why don't you like to be called OJ?” Scott asked, his face all mock innocence.
“I'm not having this conversation with you two anymore. Whatever happened to respecting your elders?” The joke was familiar and worn. We all fell into our old roles in this house.
I continued through to the kitchen to greet Mom. She pulled a roast out of the oven before leaning in for a kiss.
She stood back as if to get a good look at me.
“You were crying,” she pronounced. I swore she had a sixth sense.
“I'm fine, Mom. It's just been a long week. You know I don't sleep well during exhibit weeks.” I avoided her prying eyes. There was no point in sharing my worries that I was in over my head. Anytime I attempted to unpack my frets and furies with her, she went straight to problem-solving mode. She didn't mean to ignore my heart; she simply didn't understand her daughter. And I, in turn, did not understand my practical mother.
These family dinners were an exercise in futility. I returned each month because Dad would want me to.
I offered to set the table but the task was completed, likely by Laura or Paige. Of course. They were perfect additions to the Frasier family. Numbers-oriented, busy, linear thinkers. Capable of holding their own in economic and political discussions. More importantly, they loved Ian and Scott. I got along with both of them, especially when we stuck to topics like reality TV and Chicago sports.
I paced through the rooms. I needed something to do, anything, but no chore presented itself. I heard laughter and small talk in the other room and pretended to look at old family pictures until we sat down to eat. As the dishes were passed around, Scott peppered me with questions about Gram. Neither brother appeared miffed they were omitted from the family meeting; however, they could not believe Gram chose me of all people to be her “voice of reason.”
“You're great, Olivia. Really, you are,” Scott mentioned, his brow furrowed. “But you haven't lived the most responsibly.” I started to protest but he continued. “All I'm saying is you're not the most likely candidate, but you love Gram and you're available, so that's good enough for me.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I replied dryly, as I rolled my eyes. “I'd like to note that owning a successful business is not irresponsible.”
Mom said nothing during this discussion, as per usual. I feared she'd not been honest when we'd spoken on the phone. If she resented Gram's choice, she would never admit it. I hoped I wouldn't have to pick up on her disappointment through thinly veiled expressions.
I played with my silverware, a question heavy on my mind as the others chatted around me.
“What do you think Dad would say?” I blurted out. The chatter stopped. No one looked at me.
The silence crept around the table. I stared at my plate. Would they answer? All these years later, Dad remained the elephant in the room. I may have been a daddy's girl but I couldn't understand why we never talked about him. Mom hadn't remarried but chose to stay in the same house. His pictures hung on the walls and the ghost of his presence lingered. Mentioning his name should not have upset the balance but my family made me feel I'd disturbed the peace.
“What would he say about Gram's news,” I tried again. Maybe they'd misunderstood.
“He'd have been heartbroken, of course,” Mom replied at last. “Everyone knew he was the closest to Gram. In fact, if he was still here, she probably would have named...” her voice trailed off.
I nodded. “She would have named him to be her POA instead of me. That's what I thought.”
I glanced at my brothers. They both hunched over their plates, shoulders tight with discomfort. They refused to make eye contact with me. Even Laura and Paige sat stiff at their sides.
“I'm sorry, guys. I know you don't like to talk about him but I think about Gram and I can't help but think about Dad.”
They reassured me they were fine and then discussion moved on to more neutral topics. I smiled and nodded at the right places but considered Mom's concession in my mind. It was another piece of the puzzle. Perhaps Gram chose me to feel closer to Dad. Maybe she saw him in me, a great compliment.
After lunch, I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher while the boys found a game on TV. The women in the kitchen, the men in the den. The stereotype continued in our home no matter how often I'd argued we should have the same type of chores. They took care of the lawn in the spring and summer and shoveled snow in the winter. That was enough in their minds.
I turned the dishwasher on and wiped my hands off on the towel hanging off the oven.
“You remind me of him, you know.” Mom's soft voice caught me off guard.
“What? What do you mean?” This was unprecedented. Sometimes I wondered whether Mom had really moved on after Dad died. Twenty years later and she rarely initiated a conversation about the late love of her life.
“The bond you have with your grandmother. It's the way Brian treated her, with a mixture of awe and understanding. Your Gram is a force of nature. I love her, I do, but I haven't always understood her. I admit I didn't understand why she chose you at first.” A sad smile crossed Mom’s face.
“I don't think she chose you because of your dad though, Liv. She chose you because you have never let others decide your path. That must be what she needs. Someone who will stand up for her.”
I froze in place. She'd never said anything like this to me before. I wanted to preserve her words and make them last longer than the fleeting moment.
She came near me and patted me on the shoulder. “You'll do just fine,” she assured me, as if she sensed my unspoken fears.
I nodded and fought the ache in my chest.
“Thanks, Mom. I'm sorry you felt hurt. I try not to get in the middle of Frasier things.”
“Maybe you should try it a little more often,” she quipped, surprising me with her loyalty.
We stood there a moment, silent.
>
“Mom,” I said so softly she might not hear. My back was to her but I sensed her stillness at the sound of my voice. “Why don't we ever talk about him?” I whispered the words, as if the weight of them provided enough amplification.
There it was, the real elephant in every room these past two decades.
I couldn't see her reaction, but I didn't need to. She would flinch and stiffen, her eyes glassy as she tried to change the subject or leave the room. I didn't doubt my parents had loved each other. But I couldn't understand the shrine we’d created, as if mentioning his name would topple his image.
He'd been a great dad in many ways, but he wasn't perfect. The longer he haunted our individual memories, the less people were willing to raise his specter. Brian Frasier remained forever jovial, understanding, and taken too soon.
Mom didn't reply. She didn't leave the kitchen either. I turned around to face her, bracing myself for her response.
She had tears in her eyes. Again. As if the accident had just happened.
I wanted to remember Dad but this was the cost I paid. I struggled to remain tethered to the present.
The sight of her tears overwhelmed me. We were transported back to that fateful day before either of us said a word.
Freshman year, the middle of third period, I could see Aunt Elaine sitting in the principal's office. I was so consumed by thoughts of my crush that I didn't question why she was there. Until I noticed she was crying, a rare occurrence. Nothing could have prepared me for what came next.
She'd told me Dad had been in an accident, hit by a car as he crossed the street. He typically walked to work as the bank and the house were so close. The route was familiar, the weather clear that day. If it had been raining, we might have been better able to understand the why and how of the accident.
An elderly driver hadn't seen him. Someone whose pride kept them from surrendering their license long ago had surrendered my father instead. An ambulance rushed Dad to the hospital, but his injuries were too severe.
I arrived in time to see him take his last few breaths in the ICU. Covered in cuts and bruises, his face bloated. The image was forever engrained in my mind. Seeing him lying there made it real. I couldn't pretend that Dad would waltz in the door at the end of the day the way he always did. Not when my last memory of him was seeing him in a hospital bed, so still, so unlike him.
I didn't know Dad's memory would stay locked in that hospital room, that mentioning his name would force us to relive the accident every time. I didn't know I'd learn to stuff my feelings down deep inside, only releasing them on the pages of my journal or the space of a canvas.
I didn't know my mother would not deal with his death all these years later.
She struggled to compose herself and I took her in my arms. Another role reversal.
“I don't mean to hurt you, Mom. I really don't,” I said, my voice low and gentle. She nodded her understanding against my shoulder. “This whole week I haven't been able to stop thinking about him.”
I stopped there. She would not be ready to hear the rest: I did not want to spend the next few decades afraid to raise Gram's name. We didn't talk about Dad because Mom hadn't moved past it. Even though I'd mourned his loss, I lost him further when we couldn't mourn together as a family. I did not want to repeat the past.
It wouldn't be fair to Gram or to us.
* * *
My car on autopilot, I drove without thinking after I left the house. I blinked when I put the car in park and realized where I'd ended up. I unlocked the door and strode through the empty gallery until I reached my office. The closet contained all I'd need.
The tarp unfurled next to the desk. Out came the easel and paints. I retrieved the canvas I'd worked on sporadically, a rendering of Gram and myself at a cousin's wedding.
A few weeks ago, I'd started working off a moment captured by the photographer. Our heads thrown back in laughter, though I didn't remember the source of hilarity. Gram was beautiful and carefree in a way I could only hope to emulate.
I'd started painting the image in spite of myself. Gram hadn’t seen my work since college and there I was dreaming this would be her birthday present in July. In reality, the canvas would be hidden away with the others.
I considered my efforts thus far as I began to mix colors. Our heads hung suspended with only murky lines for bodies. Her face was more detailed than mine.
I threw myself into each brushstroke. I needed to get this one right, more than anything else I'd worked on before. I squinted at the canvas and started blending colors until the right shade appeared, adding a dot of white here and there for light. Hours passed as forms emerged and I tried to capture the essence of my grandmother.
When my stomach growled, I noticed it was past eight o'clock. I stowed the supplies and carefully set the canvas back inside the closet to dry. A brief squeeze of air freshener erased the trace of turpentine and oil, though the smell would likely return by tomorrow.
That night, sleep came at last. If I'd known what the next week held, I might have never left my bed.
Chapter Eight
Every interaction related to Gram took some adjustment on my part. My usual “go with the flow” nature went missing. I tapped my feet and crossed my legs one way, then the other as I checked email on my phone while we waited for the hospice nurse to arrive. Gram eyed me with concern but I smiled and tried to pretend like this was an ordinary day.
The knock on the door set me on edge. However, Justin Travers put me at ease the moment I greeted him. Tall and handsome, he looked like a Viking with his blond hair and neatly trimmed beard…this was Gram's nurse? I almost giggled. I’d barely processed the impact of his smile before he began discussing the topics he and Gram had gone over last Friday. He tossed updates over his shoulder as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink and informed me the hospice social worker would join us in an hour. I trailed behind him as he strode into the living room where Gram held court.
My head whirled with new information. Fall risks. Symptom management. Safety precautions. Pain medication titration.
Justin swiftly took Gram's vitals, pronouncing them all to be normal today.
Gram reported her appetite was not the greatest. She'd started a new medication to increase her appetite at the end of last week but hadn’t noticed much of a difference yet. Justin encouraged her to give it a little more time and discussed other tips that might help. He also noted her appetite, or rather what she was or was not eating, would directly affect her output.
I mentally added this to the Things I Never Wanted to Know About My Grandmother category as they discussed her bowel habits.
Justin moved on to how she was sleeping at night and her energy level during the day.
“I have no trouble retiring at the end of the day, but I do find myself napping more than usual,” Gram reported. “And yesterday I felt dizzy when I stood up, but it passed quickly.”
My head whipped toward Gram. She hadn't mentioned that during our phone conversation yesterday.
Justin appeared concerned as well. He asked a few questions about her dizzy spell before advising her to have transition time between lying down and standing up. He planned on checking in with her doctor to see if any of her medications could be adjusted, as dizziness was a common side effect for a few.
“How is your activity level so far? I know you're involved in a lot of things. Has your health impacted that?” he asked.
Gram avoided Justin’s gaze and picked at the knit afghan covering her.
“Gram,” I prompted.
“Yes, yes, dear. Just taking a moment before facing the facts,” she responded resolutely. “Very well. I canceled on my Bridge Group yesterday and I skipped brunch this morning.”
“Brunch? Not that fundraiser you were working on...” Gram would never miss out on something that important to her. Anxiety pooled in my stomach.
“That's the one, for the Auxiliary Club. Really though, they had everything under control.
Betty called me afterward and said it was lovely. They were able to raise money and I conserved my strength. There's no need to worry, Olivia Jane.”
I wouldn't get far trying to argue with her. I turned an expectant gaze to Justin and received the jolt of concerned blue eyes trained on me.
He focused his attention back on Gram. “Have you been feeling weak?”
Gram waved him off. “No, merely tired. Like I haven't had a good night's sleep in a year. When you've raised five children, you get used to feeling tired all the time.”
“True,” he conceded. “But you're not raising five children now and you told me earlier that you've been sleeping well at night.”
The front door opened and closed, followed by the staccato of high heels. Gram and Justin continued discussing the qualities of her fatigue. Aunt Mimi poked her head in the room, her eyes lighting up when she saw Justin.
No doubt about it, Justin Travers did not look like the typical nurse. Not that all nurses are women; I know that's not true. But I'd pictured someone older and grizzled. Justin, on the other hand, could have stepped off the set of a soap opera.
Golden hair that would make angels jealous? Check. Pristine white teeth? Check. Dimples? Check. Eyes bluer than the sea? Check. Don't even get me started on the state of his physique.
It was no wonder Aunt Mimi just “happened” to pop by Gram's house during Justin's visit. She giggled and preened while I tried not to stare at my entirely maternal, normally composed aunt. Thankfully she held off on interrogating him.
Justin appeared satisfied by Gram's current abilities, or at least satisfied enough to move on to the next order of business.
“This is something Cassie will go over more fully with you when the time comes but I did want to start the conversation today,” he began. “At some point, Ella May, it will no longer be safe for you to live by yourself.”
Aunt Mimi gasped. Gram nodded, as if she'd known this moment was coming. Meanwhile, the wind had been knocked out of me. I looked down at my stomach but found no fist lodged there. One more thing I hadn't seen coming.
