Shutter(56)

Grandma and I planted lots of corn and squash, some radishes and onions and baby carrots. I had stocked Grandma’s little pantry with canned peaches and pears—the ones in water she liked—and the usual cans of corned beef, tuna, and deviled ham. The thought of leaving Grandma alone terrified me. She was slower and more fragile than I remembered. She walked to the gas station and sometimes to the chapter house to keep her legs strong and her heart pumping, but she couldn’t really get anywhere else. I let her drive her pickup to the post office every day, but I found myself digging my nails into the seat cushions when she would turn into parking spaces and come up hot on cars before she would finally step on the brakes.

“Why don’t you come with me to Albuquerque?” I’d say.

“And stay where? In the dorms with you? In some old folks’ home? No, thank you.”

“What are you going to do if you need help, Grandma? Who is going to take care of you?”

“I am going to take care of me. That’s who. And you’re going to live your life and have adventures and not come back to this place. Promise me.”

“I promise, Grandma,” I said. “But as soon as I have money, I’m fixing your house. Promise that you will let me, then I’ll promise.”

“Okay, I promise.”

“Then we’ll both have a place to come home to. I need a place to come home to.”

“This will always be home. But there is a whole world out there that you should see. I’ve only seen it in books. I don’t want you to say that. I want you to see it. I want you to smell it. I want you to be able to tell me all about it as you’re showing me the pictures.”

I really wasn’t going that far away, two and a half hours by car, but the distance felt like a gigantic divide. I knew I would feel alone there, even if I was going to be beyond busy. I had registered for eighteen credit hours for my first semester, anxious to move beyond school and into the real world of photography. I was ready to tell Grandma the stories and show her the pictures.

The day before I had to leave for school, Grandma took me over to Mr. Bitsilly’s house. It was important for the both of us to have a prayer said. I didn’t know if I believed in Mr. Bitsilly’s medicine, but I still wanted to see the man and hear his voice, to hear him talk about dreams and the Arizona Cardinals.

When he opened the door, he smiled wide and shook my grandma’s hand, leading her into the house and straight to a chair. A couple of great-grandkids sat on the couch watching cartoons, the youngest one drinking a can of Shasta like it was his last bottle. Grandma and Mr. Bitsilly spoke in Navajo as he shuffled to pour her a cup of hot Navajo tea. She was worried about me being in the city by myself and wanted Mr. Bitsilly to give her some semblance of security. I’d be happy if he could, but I knew if something was going to happen to me out there in the world, it was going to happen, no matter what prayers Mr. Bitsilly offered.

“So, Rita,” Mr. Bitsilly asked me. “Still seeing your friends?”

“Just here and there, I guess,” I admitted. It did no good to lie to Mr. Bitsilly.

Mr. Bitsilly rubbed his freshly shorn hair and shook his head. “Your grandma told me that you had finally learned to put that away. She said that it had been years. Is that true?”

“Yes. It’s true. It had been years—they’d forgotten about me.”

Mr. Bitsilly handed me a Shasta. “And now? Did you invite them back in?”

“No. Mrs. Bitsie. That’s all,” I said. “She needed my help, and I didn’t want to let her down.”

The kitchen was quiet except for the screeches of the cartoons coming from the other room. Grandma sipped her tea as Mr. Bitsilly got up from the table and headed toward the attached hogan that jutted out from the house, its door facing the east, covered by the same worn blue Pendleton blanket I remembered from my childhood. Mr. Bitsilly was worn too, his back hunched as he grasped chair backs for balance.

I helped Grandma into his hogan and sat with her on some of Mr. Bitsilly’s creaky wooden chairs. Smoke began to snake up toward the ceiling. The smells of burning cedar and sage coiled inside of me. Grandma and I breathed it in as deeply as we could, our eyes closed, our chests rising and falling. As Mr. Bitsilly continued to sprinkle dry plants on the gray coals, I opened my eyes and watched him carefully circle the fire. He was deliberate with his movements, his hands, and his heart. He caught my gaze and smiled at me as he began to sing. This time I let it happen. I allowed myself to be part of the moment, to join them both in the prayer. I was scared and I needed to admit it.

I prayed that Grandma would be okay, that Mr. Bitsilly would continue to live a good life and keep his blood pressure and diabetes at bay. I asked the spirits to watch over the two of them, to make sure that nothing evil would come to them. All I could do was hope that those same spirits and entities that thought it was reasonable to talk to me would find it in their hearts to do what I asked: to keep the two people that meant everything to me safe from the world that I already knew was out there—one that I never wanted them to see. The world that I was resigning myself to had already broken my heart.

THE NEXT DAY, Grandma and I drove into town together so that I could catch the train into Albuquerque. I couldn’t help but cry as I packed my bags. Grandma would have been upset with me. It was bad to cry after someone. I knew that. But all I could imagine was Grandma helpless on the floor, or sick and unable to call. The unrealized tragedies of life consumed me.