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A deep scowl on a pale, deeply lined face accompanies this proclamation. The look paired with her words almost have the power to make me feel ashamed, like Iama solicitor who knocked on her door with a clipboard selling magazine subscriptions.
Instead of what I actually am, which is her only granddaughter. The one who brought the pho she really loves—rare beef, no onions of any kind—and her favorite flowers, peonies—which are not in season right now so a lot more expensive. Next time, I tell myself, maybe I’ll bring her carnations.
I won’t. I know I won’t. Because she may not remember me, and she may not have been all that kind before she lost her ability to remember, but Gran is all I have.
She glowers at me like a queen enthroned among the pillows, the perfectly curled blond wig atop her head acting asher crown. Today, it’s the Classy Dolly Updo wig, one of seven Gran purchased from an Etsy store specializing in custom wigs modeled after Gran’s number one hero, Dolly Parton. Out of the bunch, my personal favorite is the Dolly Layered Bouffant wig. I tried it on once and almost felt like I could conquer the patriarchy or solve the literacy crisis. So, I get the appeal.
“It’s Bailey, your granddaughter.” I manage to dredge up a smile from somewhere. Feels like it was scraped off the concrete somewhere. “Your son Peter’s daughter.”
I am very careful not to use past tense when talking about my dad. It’s better when I don’t have to tell her again as though for the first time that he died a few years back. Better for us both.
And for the assisted living facility, which suffered five-hundred-forty-seven dollars’ worth of damage one of the times Gran found out (again) her son was dead. I’ve never seen someone rip down a curtain rod and wield it like a sledgehammer, but it was a sight to behold. Before three of the staff could stop her, she took out two windows, a television, and a set of Hummel figurines belonging to the woman rooming with her at the time. Who knew those things could be so expensive?
Now, Gran has her own room. Likely because of that incident. Or perhaps the one where she knocked Mr. Winters off his motorized scooter and stole it, making a break for the emergency exit.
When they called to tell me about it—complain, really, threatening to kick her out yet again—I had to put the phone on mute to smother my laugh. Not about possibly losing her spot. It was the mental image of Gran tooling down the road with the Dolly Teased Mullet Bangs wig—the only appropriate one for an assisted living jailbreak, IMHO—blowing in the wind as she fled.
Before Gran can decide she should drive me out by throwing whatever’s within reach, I hold out the soup and flowers. “I brought you pho and flowers. Are you hungry now?”
“I could eat a baby,” Gran says.
I wince. Where didthatcomparison come from? I decide I don’t want to know. Maybe she’s been watchingGame of Thronesagain. I haven’t seen the show or read the books, but eating babies sure sounds like it could fit into that world.
As I locate a tray and start arranging her soup, Gran sits up, straightening her pink pajama top. It’s silk and has pearl buttons down the front to match her earrings, probably. She tucks the paper napkin in the neck, as delicately as though it’s linen.
“Thank you,” she says primly.
I almost fall over because Gran is not big on thanks. She never was—even before her mind became more like a sieve with very large holes. She wasn’t the soft and cuddly grandma so many people seem to have but more the demanding and cuttingly critical kind. So, I’ll tuck away this thank you like a tiny gift.
But then she reaches for her bedside table and tries to hand me a five-dollar bill from her Vera Bradley coin purse. “Here’s your tip. That will be all.”
I sigh and take the bill. I’ll give it to Hannah when I leave. Later, she’ll slip it back into Gran’s wallet.
I was planning on a longer visit, but Gran, now convinced I’m a DoorDash delivery person, frowns and shoos me out with her chopsticks. I’m not in the mood to fight, so I wave goodbye, thank her for the tip, and make my way to the front desk where I find Hannah filling out paperwork and listening to a true crime podcast. I’m grateful she hits pause because the host was saying something about decomp. I’m not squeamish, but I can’t handle dead body talk right now.
“Can you slip this back in my gran’s wallet?” I hold out the bill Gran gave me.
“She thought you were the DoorDash driver again?” Hannah’s smile is soft. She clasps her hands on the desk, flashing the rings on almost every finger. Hannah is the definition of bling. She’s even got some gold accents wound into the thick knot of braids on top of her head.
“Yep.” She still hasn’t taken the money, so I wave it at her. “Here.”
She shakes her head, her smile faltering. “Keep it.”
“I can’t take her money.” Even if I’m the one currently footing the majority of the bills for this place, everything not covered by her social security.
Hannah sighs, then pulls open a drawer and retrieves a sealed envelope with the facility’s return address stamped in place, my name scrawled across the front in messy script.
The pitying look in Hannah’s eyes makes dread pool in my belly, sour and heavy. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says.
I take the envelope with two fingers. “Is this going to ruin my day?”
Hannah’s sigh is bone-weary. The sound of someone overqualified and underpaid at a very difficult job. “Just … keep the five.”
She presses play again on her podcast, and I walk out the front doors with the envelope still held between two fingers as a deep voice discusses rigor mortis.
If freeclimbing were a thing I ever thought about doing, my grip on this letter would be tight enough to keep me hanging on the sheer face of a cliff. You’d never catch me climbing a cliff, but itsounds downright pleasant compared to dealing with this letter. Its cheerful font is a slap in the face, a direct contrast to the not-at-all cheerful threats it contains.
Threats, I tell you! Because the assisted living facility where my grandmother lives is clearly run by a terrorist cell.
