The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(52)

He fell. Hard.

Mrs. Basil E. called 911. I called Dash.



11:30 a.m.

My call to Dash had gone straight to voice mail. He’d been stranded in Brooklyn on the F train (also known to locals as the “Fudge Me!” train, except not the word “fudge,” because of its perpetual lateness). When he finally got aboveground again and texted me, I told him to meet me at the Moleskine’s next destination so I could stay with Grandpa till he was discharged from the hospital.

I was too scared to deal with reality. I refused to see it.

After Grandpa was seen by the ER doctor, I sent an update to Dash. Grandpa just needs to get bandaged. He’ll be fine. I’ll meet you at the next stop! I’m SO SORRY!

Dash the Pirate texted back, Aaargh! Can Santa feel his face? I mean, Grandpa?

I laughed. The smile’s release to my tense jaw felt so good.

Some bruises on his cheeks and a bump on his head, I typed back. But he’s already asking for lunch, so that means he’s fine. And certainly he’s feeling his stomach!

Dash replied, Take your time. I’m having a delightful morning scaring all the precocious children shoppers of Park Slope with my eye.

You’re showing them your eye patch?

No, I’m taking it off for them. Pause. And now I’ve been asked to leave the store. See you soon!



3:00 p.m.

On a Clipper City boat we’ll scavenge

In the Pirate’s Booty bar we’ll ravage

The Manhattan isle we’ll go around

While I scream I LOVE YOU aloud

Ahoy, matey!



I totally lost track of time. And my cell signal was spotty. Why is cell service so bad in the places you need it most, like hospitals, the subway, the movies?

So many doctors came in and came out.

My parents arrived.

Great-Uncles Sal and Carmine arrived.

Benny and Langston and Cousin Mark arrived.

It was almost like a party in Grandpa’s hospital room. My relatives were actually wrapping the presents in their shopping bags to pass the time. Or to not lose more time, since Christmas was tomorrow.

Grandpa had a room now. The doctors wanted to keep him under observation for a few hours.

No one said why.

I’d clipped our tickets to the page with the Moleskine directions for pirate destination number two.

I forgot to meet Dash there.

It’s okay! Dash texted me. There’s nothing better for a wounded cornea than being wind-whipped across the Hudson River.

Sorry.

Don’t be. I just got offered a job slinging drinks in the Pirate’s Booty bar.

Because you’re wearing a pirate’s patch?

No. Because I’m the only sober person down here.



6:00 p.m.

Shiver me timbers!

Back to the Strand we’ll go

Aglow aglow aglow

We’ll find books about hornswogglers, landlubbers, and scallywags Locked back in the basement we’ll contemplate a sh…



I didn’t make it there, either.

I typed: Sorry! Again!

Don’t be sorry. Being stranded at the Strand during last-minute shopping chaos is actually the most relaxing place in the world to me. You really do love me!

You’re interrogating people trying to sell their books back, aren’t you?

No, I’m slumped in a chair in the We’re Here, We’re Queer section, about to take a nap. SO HAPPY. So don’t apologize. How’s Grandpa?

The cardiologist delivered the news while Grandpa slept. “I recommend he move to an assisted-living facility.”

A polite way of saying Grandpa’s most dreaded words: nursing home.

Mrs. Basil E. said, “Nonsense. He can live with me. I can provide the care he needs.”

Dr. Jerkface asked, “Does your home have stairs?”

Mrs. Basil E. said, “It’s a five-story townhouse. Of course it does.”

Dr. Jerkface said, “He’s at great risk if he falls again. Are you prepared to install chairlifts? Old Manhattan brownstones don’t accommodate those well.”

“I can convert the street-level rooms for him.”

“Are you prepared to provide live-in nursing care? His anti-coagulant medication needs to be rigorously monitored. He can bruise easily, as you see on his face, and is at risk for mini-strokes. Stairs are the biggest danger to his condition. To say nothing of five levels of them.”

Mom’s face was grim but resigned. “We knew this day was coming. Do we face it now or stall again, only to be left with the same choice a few months or a year from now, and risk that his condition will have deteriorated more in the meantime?”

In my heart, I knew it was the best option for Grandpa. I just knew how much he’d hate it, how hard he’d resist it, and my heart squeezed in pain for him. The doctor’s recommendation was meant to extend and improve Grandpa’s quality of life. To Grandpa, it would be a death sentence.

I expected Mrs. Basil E. to argue with my mother, but instead she sighed and said, “You’re right.”

Great-Uncle Carmine asked, “Should we cancel this year’s Christmas-night party?” A family tradition going on fifty years. Sacrilege! To cancel it was a sure sign of the end of the world.

“No,” said Mrs. Basil E. “The party is still on. Now, more than ever, we must celebrate.”