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“How are you?” I ask her softly.
She rolls her eyes and glances back at the door, with a shake of her head. I resist the urge to laugh, because something has her worked up.
“It’s like a prison in here,” she whispers loudly. “They won’t let me do anything in here.”
Mom walks in and narrows her eyes. She gives Grammy a stern look and she crosses her arms over her chest, her lips pressed tightly together in a straight line.
“Tell him the whole story,” she says.
“What do you mean?” Grammy asks, feigning innocence.
Mom laughs and shakes her head, before turning to me.
“She snuck out of the house after I went to sleep last night. I woke up at four in the morning to the police pounding on the door.”
“You’re kidding.” I groan. I glance at Grammy, who is avoiding eye contact with me. “What happened?”
“She’d broken into a shop on Main Street. The police arrived and there were animals everywhere. They were blocking the road, the sidewalk…” She shakes her head and laughs, because what else can you do? “She told them she wanted to ‘free all the animals.’”
“Being passionate about animal rights isn’t a bad thing,” Becca offers.
“I agree. Only this wasn’t a pet shop, or a veterinary clinic that she broke into.” Her lips twist into an involuntary smile. “It was a taxidermist office,” Mom says. Her shoulders shake as she tries to hold in her laughter. “I didn’t realize it at first when the officer was telling me. I was picturing Noah’s Ark or something, with animals walking around everywhere. When he showed me a photo of the scene, I nearly burst into laughter right then,” She wipes her eyes. “The worst part was he was so serious about the whole thing.” He sat there and frowned at me as I tried not to laugh. I felt like I was in school again.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes.
Any other day, I’d probably find it funny, but all I feel today is anxiety. These episodes are becoming a daily thing, sometimes twice a day. Every time I speak to Mom, she has a few new Grammy tales for me. Becca catches my eye and smiles softly. I see the sympathy in her eyes and I know she gets it. Mom clasps her hands together and looks from Becca, to me.
“So, are you staying for dinner?”
I shake my head. “I’d love to stay, but I think it’s best if we get to Vegas before dark. We might even have to skip that coffee, as much as it pains me to say that.”
“Of course.” Mom nods, understanding exactly what I mean. “Things definitely become more complicated traveling with her after dark.”
My mother knows better than anyone how bad Grammy gets in the evening, but I know more than most people would, too. When Grammy lived back in LA, before she moved here to be closer to Mom, I used to visit her every week in the evenings after work. It doesn’t sound like much and I feel guilty that I couldn’t get over to see her more often than that, but I was just working so much that it was hard to find the time. The problem with time is that when I do finally have it, Grammy’s might have run out.
The difference between seeing her then and visiting her in the mornings was incredible. It was like a completely different person. The woman I saw after dark was afraid, confused and scared, a far cry from the strong, independent lady I knew my grandmother to be. I hated seeing her like that. I told Mom that I didn’t think she could handle living alone anymore. It killed me, not only because I knew how much her independence meant to her, but also because it would mean she’d be even farther away from me. I struggled finding the time to see her as it was.
“You ready, Grammy?” I ask her.
I take her arm and help her to her feet. She stands up, but then shuffles away from me, an alarmed look on her face. She glances from me to my mother to Becca, before she seems to relax.
Getting Grammy ready to leave is a marathon in itself. I’m exhausted by the time we actually walk out of the house. The funny thing is, there probably was time for that coffee. I stifle a yawn and help Grammy out to the car, ignoring her grumbling about missing half her favorite show. Becca reaches for her bags and is quickly swatted away.
“I’m not dead, girlie. I can carry my own bags.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Becca says with a smile.
“Are you sure about that?” Grammy frowns. She moves closer to me, but her eyes remain on Becca as she whispers loudly, “I don’t trust her. She looks way too happy.”
