Fight Night(28)

I set my alarm for twenty minutes earlier than Mom’s because I was the only one who knew how to get Grandma’s compression socks on, even though there are YouTube videos and Mom could just watch one and focus and learn.





PART TWO



AWAY





9.

This morning I was constipated. Hurry, hurry, Swiv, try to relax, said Mom, the cab’ll be here in four minutes. I’m not a shit machine! She’s all bunged up, honey, said Grandma, it’s genetic. God, I know the feeling, said Mom. This pregnancy is really … a cigarette and a cup of strong coffee usually helps with that but—Don’t smoke! I yelled. They were standing in the hallway outside the bathroom. If there’s anything left in the world for Mom to blame on Gord, she’ll find it.

Grandma’s area of expertise is bowel movements. She walked into the bathroom while I was marooned in there. She handed me a jar of prunes. Have you heard of knocking! I said. I don’t have meals on the toilet! I heard Mom telling us the cab was outside waiting, were we coming? That’s when I remembered I’d forgotten to put on Grandma’s compression socks—and now there was no time! I was sweating on the toilet. I felt like crying. I couldn’t be Grandma’s travel companion in charge of keeping her alive and be crying all the time. I gave up on my body’s natural ability to flush itself of toxins and went to Grandma’s room to get her socks. She was sitting in her big chair in the living room, all ready to go, staring out the window and smiling into space like she’d just had a lobotomy. She was wearing a white-and-black scarf with birds on it. We’re off! she said. She was so happy. No! Your compression socks! I said. Oh god, Swiv, said Mom. She was standing at the door waving at the cab driver. Do that in the cab! Or at the airport!

But I was already doing it. I was kneeling on the floor and Grandma was hunched over me whispering, It’s okay, Swiv, you can do it, you’re almost there, the cab driver will wait, don’t worry. Let’s go! said Mom. I was wearing my tight jean jacket and I was drenched in sweat. Don’t move! I said to Grandma. Grandma said, Atta girl, Swiv, you got it. My knuckles started bleeding from being caught between Grandma’s legs and the compression socks. He’s gonna take off! yelled Mom. She really wanted to get rid of me and Grandma. No, no, honey, he’s got his meter ticking, don’t worry, said Grandma. He’s getting out of the car! said Mom. But I was done. The socks were almost as perfect as the ones in the video. Good work! said Grandma. I’m compressed. Let’s go!

The cab driver had come to the door and was putting our little suitcases into the trunk. I had our passports and Sudokus and crossword puzzles and Grandma’s pills and two bags of gross trail mix and chewable vitamins from Mom and one section of Dead Heat in my backpack. I had two other books for Grandma in my little suitcase. They were called Let Darkness Bury the Dead and The Shadow Killer. They were big but I could saw them up for Grandma when we got to Fresno. Grandma said we’d buy better snacks when we got to the airport.

You can’t bring this! I said to Grandma. I handed Mom the CBD oil. Grandma was trying to smuggle it in my backpack. We’re going to the United States of Freaking America! I said. Raisin Capital of the World! said Grandma.

One month ago, me and Grandma went to the government store to get cannabis drugs for her because she wanted to try them out. She had to answer a million questions on a form. She circled the same answer for all of them. She didn’t know that she was supposed to answer yes every once in a while to get the drugs.

Feeling nervous, anxious or on edge? Not at all.

Little interest or pleasure in doing things? Not at all.

Feeling down, depressed or hopeless? Not at all.

Not being able to stop or control worrying? Not at all.

Worrying too much about different things? Not at all.

Trouble relaxing? Not at all.

Being so restless that it is hard to sit still? Not at all.

Becoming easily annoyed or irritable? Not at all.

Feeling afraid as if something awful might happen?

Not at all.

There was nothing wrong with Grandma! They still gave her the weed. The government knows that old people lie about everything.

I handed Mom the vitamins. Me and Grandma aren’t gonna eat your pre-natal vitamins, I said. We’re not pregnant! Can you imagine? said Grandma. Mom said vitamins are vitamins. That’s so gross! I said. I threw the bag of Gord’s vitamins onto the stairs. Mom and Grandma laughed like they were one team of superior people who knew that vitamins were vitamins and I was the other team. Mom tried to comb my hair with her fingers. Don’t! I shouted. I like it tangled.

Grandma and Mom hugged and hugged. Then Mom and I hugged and hugged. Remember to wipe the oregano oil off the sink as soon as you’ve spit it out, I said. Or I’ll have to spend fourteen years’ hard labour scraping it off when I get home. Mom promised. It’s not my life’s work! I said. Mom hugged me again and tried to sneak her fingers into my hair. She told me to phone her when we arrived. If we’re alive, I said. Grandma was walking down the stairs slowly like a little kid. She put one foot, then the other, onto each stair before moving to the next. She held on to the railing. See you in the funny papers! she said to Mom.

The cab driver fell in love with Grandma instantly and took her arm and helped her down the stairs and along the little path to the curb, like they were a bride and groom. Shotgun! yelled Grandma. She always had to sit in the front of cars. Normal people sit in the backs of cabs, but not Grandma. She wants to see everything and navigate everything and talk with the driver. The cab driver had to move all his stuff off the front seat. He wiped off the crumbs and chucked some garbage into the back seat next to me. A Tim Hortons cup landed on my leg. Sorry, sorry, he said. Grandma got in. Mom waved and waved. Gord, I said in my head, I’ll be back in ten days. You can do this. Use your superpowers. Remember there’s a fire inside you that you have to keep burning.