The paper thin skin on her forehead, like mine, is
translucent, and it suddenly furrows. She gazes into a distance that isn’t
there and for a moment she’s lost from me. It passes quickly, it would be a
shadow if I didn’t know by now to expect it, and suddenly she’s back. But there’s
something new in her face, or rather if not new there is at least the absence
of something that was there a moment ago.
She’s confused.
She looks at me for answers, suddenly like a small child
rather than my grandmother. She’s hesitant, but committed as she gazes into a
distance that’s not there.
“There’s something here,” she says gesturing with her tiny
hand towards something as though it’s just past her physical reach. “There’s
something here, there’s some sadness.” Again she meets my eyes, slightly
frightened but committed. “What is it?”
I take a deep breath. I have found hell on Earth.
I kneel down next to her chair and take hold of the little
hand that appears to be straying from her ever shrinking body and I hold it
gently.
“It’s Debbie, Grandma.” I tell her, hoping this will be
enough, that I won’t have to repeat the words that bear the facts that I myself
am struggling to avoid. Her stare remains blank. I wonder whether to ease into
it somehow or just go straight for the jugular. “Debbie died on Monday.” How
much detail can she handle, and how much does she need? “We’re going to the
funeral tomorrow.”
Her face crumples and my heart breaks. Again.
There is a sharp intake of breath; I can’t tell if it’s hers
or mine.
“Oh that’s right,” she says, resigned. “Isn’t that just terrible?”
……………………………………………………………………….
The next day I push her chair through the funeral home,
walking her through the boards of photos put together to document her eldest
daughter’s life. We look at the flowers; I read her the cards and we speculate about how much Debbie would have
loved this. I mostly try to hold back my tears. I’m grateful for someone
besides myself to tend to, for when left to my own devices I dissolve
completely. On occasion I’m called away to be introduced to someone,
instinctual manners guide me through, I perform the act of niece or daughter
when necessary and politely excuse myself after the appropriate amount of time.
I return to where I’ve left my grandmother’s chair, parked
in front of the television, which plays an endless stream of photos of Debbie. She
sits next to her ex husband’s wheelchair, they greet each other cordially,
despite their current close proximity the span of the years of hurt and anger
and distance prevent them from together mourning the loss of their firstborn
child. They each stare forward solemnly at the television, appearing almost to
be trying to memorize the plot of a TV show, but really looking through it to
some memory deep in the recesses of their minds.
The service is about to begin so I wheel my grandmother’s chair
into the chapel. I place her in front of a photo of Debbie next to the urn so
there can be no mistake, and we sit down in the chairs provided. People file in
and awkwardly gage their relational closeness to the deceased by how closely
they sit toward the front. The rest of my relatives enter, the grieving family,
and I’m grateful to have missed the show. There aren’t enough chairs left for
them and people move to make room. Kind words are spoken, prayers are murmured,
and I hold tight to my grandmother’s bird-like shoulders, not knowing if I am
comforting her or holding myself upright, and taking my hand from her knee only
to hold my mother’s hand to my left.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and I feel my insides follow
suit, my bones feel hallow, my blood runs dry. Amidst this drought my tears
flow still, threatening to choke me, to drown me, and I wish they would but for
this frail body next to me, this one who needs me to remind her of the tragedy
that has befallen her. She shakes in my arms in a fresh wave of grief, and I
hold her, for it’s all I can do.
