Part III – Anne
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all – Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell
January 2004, Grosse Pointe, Michigan
"It will happen, and then we can be together." That's what Fred always says whenever he needs assurance that we do have a path to each other. Even though I know he speaks of "it" with an air of fatalism rather than malice, honestly, "it" is the last thing I want to hear about. Still, I know that's the only thing keeping him going all this while – because without the certainty of "it", our current state of limbo might just as well last forever, and there would be no meaning in us staying engaged if we were to believe we can never be together in all of eternity. But although my rational mind is fully aware of the inevitability of "it", in my heart of hearts, I'll never be ready, not even when hitting the three-year mark has already surpassed any of the expectations the doctors originally had for Grandma. I know that I'm selfish, and that I'm greedy; but three years isn't enough. Heck, five years won't be enough either. There isn't any number of years that could ever be enough, for I will always take the years I'm given, and then want yet some more.
These days, Grandma spends most of her time in her room, and instead of coming out to the dining table to eat with us, we have to bring her meals on a tray to her room. Nonetheless, she still changes out of her PJ's into proper clothing every day, combs her hair, and sits in a chair in her room to watch TV and have her meals. That's why when she complains one morning about feeling lethargic, I don't think too much of it – I figure there should be a simple explanation, something like maybe the flu. We head to the hospital and spend almost half a day sitting in a crowded waiting room before a doctor sees her, and they arrange for a room so she can stay overnight for tests and scans. It all feels very routine until the results come back the next day, and that is when my whole world falls apart once more again.
It's bad news, probably the worst I could possibly get: the cancer has spread to occupy 80% of her lungs, which means that all the cells (or not even all, just twenty-five percent of them) only need to divide just once, and that will be the end of the road.
"Do you think that will be weeks, or months?" I ask, in a shaky, tentative voice.
"It varies with every individual, but the most likely outcome is weeks," comes the answer.
Weeks. A period of time that could pass by in a single flash, for "weeks" could mean a week, or two, or three. I'm so not ready for this – perhaps it should've been obvious to me that I should've been prepared, yet I've never been able to conceive of a life without Grandma in it, not when she's been there with me for as long as I can remember.
When the diagnosis first came, more than three years ago to this day, the hardest thing for me was to tell people that Grandma has cancer. It felt like if I didn't say it, then at least there might be a chance that the doctors might be wrong, but if the words came out of my mouth, that would mean I believed in it, and it'd make it real. Yet now, it's the opposite – I can't keep this news to myself for any length of time at all, because I just can't, I don't want to, face this on my own. I waste no time calling Father in Florida and Mary at her dorm, telling all of them to come meet me at home.
They've got her on oxygen with a cannula and are giving her morphine, so for the moment, she's stable and as comfortable as she can get. While I wait for Father to fly in, I sit with her. Every moment is precious now, and watching TV is just wasting time, so instead I decide to find something we can talk about which won't remind us of our morbid situation, something I've always wanted to know, but never dared to ask.
"Grandma, how did Father and Mom get together?"
She answers me slowly, pausing often, but persevering to tell me the whole story. "It was 1965," she says. "My dear Eli – for that's what I called Elizabeth when she was young – was in sophomore year at Barnard, and all she wanted was to spend a year studying in Paris. She had just gotten into a study-abroad program for junior year, and then she met Walter at a college mixer in NYC. He wanted to go to Paris too, and so they agreed to spend the next year in Paris together. She told me she liked him because he was very handsome and looked French, and he spoke perfect French even though his family was from Detroit, like us.
"She went there and stayed in school all year, but Walter had dropped out of Marymount Manhattan because he fancied himself to be an artist. His parents rented a swanky little studio apartment for him in a quaint old building right in the middle of downtown, and later on she told me she hardly spent any time with her host family because she ended up living there with him. She always said that was the most romantic year of her life, when they made trips into the countryside, visited the old chateaus, skied in the Alps, and frequented the Louvre, and they could both drink wine because the legal drinking age over there is eighteen. After the year was over, she managed to convince him to come back to the States because they both wanted to be in San Francisco for the Summer of Love.
"After the summer, they came back – thank God – and she told me there was nothing left for them in Haight-Ashbury anymore because it was getting too crowded, and all the 'real' hippies were going away. I don't know how she talked him into going back to school, but he ended up finishing his degree in film and media studies, while she graduated magna cum laude in her class in economics. She finished school a year earlier than he did, because of that year he skipped, but she stayed in NYC with him anyway and after he graduated in 1969, they went up to Woodstock.
"They came back to Detroit after Altamont – it took the joy out of being hippies for them, she said. Eli was the one who made Walter cut his hair, change his ragged bell-bottoms for suits, and join his father's company. They were twenty-four, he had a good income with the family firm, and his parents gave them a decent sum of money to buy a house. Why would there be any reason for them not to get married? And you know, the rest is history. They had a good life, those years – nice house, good money, and lots of social engagements. Your grandpa was only a lawyer, a partner in a small firm, so Walter's family, with three generations in Big Auto, was a big step up for my Eli."
Honestly, do you want to know what I think? Grandma told me I was throwing my life away at nineteen when I committed to an exclusive relationship with Fred and refused to date any more boys, but I think it's my mom who threw her life away. She was nineteen too, when she met Father; and while Fred spent every single cent of the money that he earned himself to invest in his future, paying for flight lessons and strategically clocking up flying hours in specific aircraft to improve his resume with his summer income, Father was squandering away his family's money, that his father and grandfather before him had worked hard to earn, just to travel around and enjoy life without giving anything back to the family. Father and Fred might both have been nineteen, handsome, witty and charming, without a cent saved up in their bank accounts, when Mom and I respectively met them; but that's pretty much where anything they might ever have in common ends. For seventeen years, it turns out, Mom took care of Father, and how did she end up after all that effort? She never got to see her fortieth birthday, having sacrificed her life for the hope of giving him a son, and she never had a chance to get to know her daughters and be a part of our lives as we grew up.
"Do you think Mom was happy?" I ask Grandma.
"She had almost everything," Grandma replies. "Wealth, status, beauty, popularity, and virtue, those were all hers for the taking. There was only one more thing I would have wished for her, which is that she could have a husband who valued her more."
When Father, Liz, Mary and Charles all show up in Grandma's hospital room together within 24 hours and hang around for hours on end, nobody needs to say anything explicitly for her to know that the news isn't good. Over the past two days, I've been turning over all the options in my mind: bringing her home on hospice, staying in the hospital, or getting her transferred to a residential hospice facility. Father and Liz are staying with me in Grandma's house, occupying the two other bedrooms, so if we want to bring Grandma home, we'll need to set up a hospital bed and oxygen apparatus in the living room. Mary, who'd gone back to school at last, starting four-year college after a year off following her associate degree, insists on coming home to stay too, even though I encouraged her to stay in her dorm so she could still get to and from class without depending on us having the time to drive her to campus at Dearborn. But she insists on staying put and camping out in my room; she spends all her days crying noisily and saying she's too sad to be able to concentrate at school. Much as I think Grandma might want to spend her last weeks at her old home, the reality is that it'll be far from comfortable for her there, as we would need to manage her morphine and oxygen dosage mainly on our own, save for short visits from a hospice nurse, and she'll have to put up with all the drama and bickering from the family as well. But when I bring up the possibility of going to a hospice facility, Father nixes it because of the stigma; as usual, he'd rather whitewash and set aside anything he doesn't like, rather than facing the messiness that real life unavoidably brings from time to time.
"Hospices smell of death," he remarks, wrinkling his nose. "And she'll live longer if she believes that her disease is being actively treated, so she can have hope of getting better."
Well, I suppose, that means he's not going to tell Grandma the truth about her condition, not that it surprises me one bit. I've learned, though, that withholding the truth is cruel rather than kind, and so, I end up being the one to break it to her, as gently as possible.
"Grandma," I say, "who are the people whom you would most like to see? If I make out a list, I can ask Father to invite them here to come see you."
"If you ask them to come… I suppose that means, going home is not in the plan, then?" asks Grandma.
"I've been thinking long and hard about the arrangements for going home, and with Father and Liz staying there, and Mary doubled up with me in my room, you'll be more comfortable staying here, where you have a private room of your own, and we can crank the bed up for you to help you breathe easier." I stop there, not wanting to disrespect Father by spelling out how it would be utter chaos for us to move her with all the equipment she needs into a space that's bursting at the seams with Elliot bickering, but I don't think I need to say all that for her to get the idea anyway.
"I see… And how long is this going to be for?"
"I don't know," I say, because I don't want to say 'weeks', and the truth, honestly, is that nobody really knows. And then, I'm lost for anything else to say that wouldn't sound callous or trite.
Grandma closes her eyes and stays perfectly still, deep in thought, for a long time; but when she opens them again and turns her head to face me, her expression and demeanour are calm and peaceful.
"Eighty-eight years is a long time to live," she says. "And I've had a comfortable and happy life, too. Don't worry about me, Anne – I'll be all right."
The next week or so passes by in a blur; people come and go in Grandma's room, many of them distant relatives and family acquaintances whom I hardly know. Madam Dalrymple and Miss Carteret fly in from New York, of course, all decked out in Gucci and Alexander McQueen, while I'm in two-day-old sweats, an oversize T-shirt, and the Chuck Taylors I wore back in college, which are now ratty, stinky and scuffed but still the most comfortable footwear I own. Every day, I go back to the house for a shower break and a change of clothing, then return to the hospital for another twenty-three-hour marathon stint of hanging around, waiting for nothing in particular.
If the Elliot family had one superpower, it's the ability to turn any location into an aristocrat's drawing room. Even in these days, the days that are supposed to be full of poignant moments of connection and closure, all the conversations from the unending parade of guests are essentially superficial parlour-talk. After a quick exchange of how-are-you's, they'll launch into all the latest who's-with-whom or who's-gotten-what or who's-gone-where. Nobody's really interested in talking about anything remotely meaningful, yet strangely enough, Grandma seems perfectly content with receiving and entertaining them all. And I suppose, as long as she's happy and gets to see everyone whom she wants to see one more time, the visits are serving their purpose after all, so I paste a smile on my face and participate in the small talk as best as I can.
Each new day stretches ahead of me, long and full of dread; I hate crossing off each day on the calendar, yet I feel trapped in this world of limbo where Grandma and I are constantly surrounded by people, but I can't say what I truly think or feel to any of them. About a week in, though, I get some relief through an unexpected text – it's Sophia, and she says she's waiting downstairs in the hospital lobby and asks me to go meet her whenever it's convenient for me to step out.
Grandma always takes a nap after lunch, and that's usually when I head down to the food court to grab a quick bite for myself, so I swing by the lobby first to pick up Sophia. She looks just like the picture she sent, with her short, thick hair in tightly-wound corkscrew curls framing her head like a cloud, accentuated with bold hoop earrings. Although it's the first time we're meeting in person, I feel like I've known her a long time already from all the calls and correspondence we've had in the past two-and-a-half years, and I can hardly believe she really came here, all the way from San Diego where AJ is currently on shore duty. I fall into her outstretched arms for an enormous, reassuring hug.
"I'll be here for as long as you need somebody," she says to me. "I'm living with my in-laws, and AJ and Fred sent enough money for me to stay here for a few months and get you settled through this."
This, I realize, is how Fred has kept that long-ago promise, that he'd be there with me when "it" happens. I knew, all along, that his time is not always his own and that he might not be able to get leave to come to me, but he'd somehow arranged with Sophia that she should be here so that I'd have a much-needed friend – or a sister, during the darkest days of this journey.
Sophia stays next to me in Grandma's room as we watch her sleep; even though we can't talk much for fear of disturbing her rest, I still feel much better knowing I won't be facing this alone. With most of the constant stream of visitors petering out now that we are starting week two of this hospital stay, I've been spending long days and even longer nights living in the hospital room, mostly marking time between the cycle of watching TV, having meals, and buzzing the nurse so each of us can take one side when helping Grandma use the bathroom. Despite the prognosis being "weeks", the sameness of each day this past week and a half gives me hope amidst my sense of dread. Every night, I've been carefully saying "goodnight" to Grandma instead of "goodbye", not wanting to jinx myself by indicating I feel anything less than 100% certain that I'll see her again the next day. It's been like going back to the days of chemo again, only worse because there is now no hope left; I've let each hour and each day drag along, stretching time out emptily and meaninglessly in order to buy more time. Aside from the occasional guest, the only other respites to my solitude have been the Elliot family dinners, which Father, Liz, and Mary reprise every night bringing in restaurant take-out at the time when they serve Grandma her dinner in the hospital. They're not cruel per se, and they do want to make the most of this time together too, it's just that they're even more lost than I am and the only way they know how to re-create normalcy is by out-Ellioting our usual selves, noshing on fancy steak, halibut, foie gras and caviar while gathered in front of Sex And the City with Father and Liz repeating all the salacious gossip from Palm Beach that their friends sent them on AOL Instant Messenger during the day.
"Jemima," says Grandma when she next wakes up and sees Sophia in the room. "Thank you for coming to see me – and you've dressed up so nicely, too."
"Grandma, this is Sophia, not Jemima," I quickly reply, desperate for Grandma not to insult Sophia by mistaking her for our former domestic helper. "She's my -" I'm about to say that she's my friend, when Sophia astutely steps in.
"I'm her friend," says Sophia quickly, cutting me off mid-sentence. "I'm here to help Anne out." As she says this, I realize she's making it ambiguous whether she's Jemima's friend or mine, and she doesn't mind letting Grandma think she's the help to avoid upsetting her with us getting dangerously near the truth. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stevenson."
Sophia and Grandma hit it off quite well, since Sophia knows how to draw her out by getting her to share little titbits about the Stevenson and Elliot family histories whenever she has the energy. Her natural cheerfulness pervades the room, and for the first time since all of this started, I find myself able to join in conversations with a real smile instead of a pasted-on one. She tag-teams with me on bathroom duty too, giving me the chance to take more breaks in the courtyard during Grandma's nap times. Father, Liz and Mary get to meet Sophia too as they pop in on desultory visits during the day, even though she discreetly absents herself from the Elliot dinnertime. Like Grandma, they don't question that she could be anything other than the help because of the colour of her skin, and she continues to conceal her identity by gracefully letting them think that.
"I really should set them straight," I tell her one day as we slip out together to the food court during lunchtime. "It isn't fair to you, for them to look down on you that way, and I want you to be respected as a friend of the family."
"Anne, it's really OK," she says. "You've spent the last few years keeping your engagement with Fred a secret from your family, all because you didn't want to start a quarrel that would drive everyone apart, what with your grandma being sick and all. And you've hung on for so long already, so I won't ask you to ruin everything now, at this critical time when it's even more important for all of you to stick together. My pride can survive a few knocks, don't worry."
With two of us in the room every day, I bring my old chess set from home, to help us fill up the emptiness during the times when Grandma takes her long naps in the afternoons. I also grab some old favourite books from home to read to everybody, alternating between Pride and Prejudice and selected pieces from the stash of poetry books that Benwick has been sending me, carefully curating my readings to fill Grandma's hours with as much joy and peace as possible.
The weeks pass as I burn through my FMLA leave: two, then three, then four. By this time, we're more than a month into the hospital stay, and I heave a sigh of relief that weeks have turned into months after all. I know we're living on the most borrowed of borrowed time, and Sophia and I start taking turns to spend nights on the sofa bed in the hospital room, making sure that Grandma is never left alone.
Midway through the fourth week, Charles announces that he's coming by to visit Grandma with his family and asks for everyone in the Elliot family to be there too. Most of our visitors have come only once, but not the Musgroves; every weekend, without fail, the entire family will stop by for the hour when Grandma is most alert and Hetty and Lulu will ham it up and fill us in on their latest fifth-grade escapades, often leaving Grandma and me in laughter. But this time is different, because Charles specifically tells everyone to dress up and come hungry because he's bringing in a teatime spread from Canella in Southfield.
Of course, this prompts Liz and Mary to make an excursion to Troy to shop for outfits, though I simply shop my closet and repurpose one of the dresses I got from Filene's Basement during college. The formerly form-fitting sheath skims loosely around me now; even though I haven't been running as much as I used to in high school and college, my regime of work and caregiving responsibilities hasn't left me the space to put on any weight at all, in fact the opposite. I try to infuse some colour into my cheeks with makeup, then sweep my scraggly hair into an updo to hide the fact that I haven't been to the hairdresser in months (in fact, it's the first time I washed my hair in the last five days). Squeezing my feet into a pair of strappy stiletto heels, I totter out of the house and drive back to the hospital, making my way through the hallways with baby steps so the clop of my heels won't wake up everyone in the wards.
"Lookin' good, Anne," says Charles, looking absolutely out of place in this space in his full black-tie outfit with tuxedo, cummerbund and bow tie. "Did you remember to bring your camera, like I asked?"
"Yep, right here," I say, whipping my little camera out of my purse.
"OK. Now, start recording when I say 'action', OK?" He grabs a single red rose and a little turquoise box that he had laid down on the side table and holds them behind his back. "Now, stand over there – no, move a little bit more to your left, that's perfect – ready? Ac-tion!"
I press the button to start recording video, as Charles drops to one knee at Mary's feet, capturing him in perfect profile as he holds out the rose and the box to her.
"Miss Mary Elliot, we've been swing buddies since I was eighteen and you were just fourteen. You captured my imagination and my heart with your lightness of foot, your beautiful smile, and your melodic voice. I've always known we were meant to be, and today, I'm asking you if you will be the only swing partner and my one companion for the rest of our lives. Mary Elizabeth Elliot, will you marry me and make me the happiest man in the world?" He flips open the top of the box – it's from Tiffany's, and in the middle of the plump velvet cushion is a ring set all around with little diamonds and a big one in the middle, sparkling conspicuously in the soft winter afternoon light coming in from the window.
Mary delicately plucks the rose from Charles' hand and squeals; I wonder how far down the hall her voice will carry. Just as delicately, she picks up the ring and slips it onto her fourth finger, waving her hand daintily toward the camera I'm holding.
"Oh, my dear Charles! You were the first boy I ever danced with, and ever since then, I knew you were the only man for me. You've made me the happiest woman in the world today, and of course, I'll marry you. The only question is, how soon?" She swoops down daintily to gently pull Charles to his feet, and they share a passionate kiss, at which sight Hetty and Lulu cheer in delight.
"Cut!" calls out Charles as they pull apart – in any case, I'm not sure how long I can keep on filming till my Memory Stick runs out. They all turn to Grandma, and I note her enthusiastic smile of approval. "Mrs. Stevenson, do we have your blessing?"
"Of course," says Grandma. "Charles, you've always been such a dear, sweet boy, ever since you were just a little baby. You were such a gentle child, and you'd never fight or hurt anyone. And I can't thank you enough for how you took care of Mary these last few years, especially when it's you who managed to get her back to school to finish her degree. I couldn't ask for more in a grandson-in-law; you've made all my dreams come true."
Performative, I think, though I know it's cynical and curmudgeonly of me to throw cold water on their big day, even if it's only within my private thoughts. But let's be honest with ourselves, this is the ultimate in revisionist history. First up, Charles and Mary weren't really a couple when she was fourteen, the way Charles implied during his proposal. If you want the straight facts, they started swing dancing together because I wanted out of Charles' attempts to woo me during winter break in freshman year, and then there was his doomed attempt at asking me to be his girlfriend the following summer. Even though Charles has always been the target of Mary's puppy love, there was a time when I in turn was the target of his puppy love, albeit a reluctant one because I didn't want to spoil our friendship. And next, there's Grandma's little speech about how Charles is her favourite grandson-in-law; of course, that's true, but I know full well that all along, she would've much preferred him to hit it off with me instead of Mary. In the big scheme of things, none of it matters at all, because I don't begrudge Charles and Mary their happiness, especially since I've already found mine; but I do feel sad that none of us Elliot sisters can have an honest love affair. All of us have our own personal skeletons in the closet: Liz serially turning away men in the hope of finding someone better (read: richer); me keeping my engagement a secret for three and a half years to prevent nuclear-grade family fallout; and now Charles and Mary, recording an altered version of their path to marriage for posterity because they want to wipe out the fact that to Charles, Mary was second fiddle to me for many years, even though those years were ancient history when Charles and I were essentially still children, and she has owned Charles' heart, at least whatever of it there was to give, for the entirety of his adult life.
We all know, though, why Charles and Mary set up that little performance; it's because they want Grandma to have the chance to see them getting engaged, to feel assured that Mary will have a good husband from a decent family to take care of her for life. And honestly, Mary needs it; ever since she was born premature and fragile, she was the one who always needed to be protected. Liz will do all right, she's the "it" girl who will never let a man get her down, and over the years, I've toughened up a ton as I saw and experienced more of the real world, for that's part and parcel of becoming a military spouse. But Mary, she's the only one who can't survive without being wrapped up in cotton wool, and so it's probably fitting that she's the one who settled down first (at least publicly) with a model match by Grandma's definitions.
"Anne, now that Mary's well settled, I only have one regret," says Grandma one evening after everyone else has gone home. "You have such a kind and pure heart, and I won't rest easy without knowing that you have a good man to take care of you, a man who will treasure and cherish you the way you deserve. Your mom had almost everything I ever wanted for her, except the one most important thing in life, which was to be respected within her marriage and the family she married into. Walter never valued her the way he should, and that's the one thing I wish you would have within my lifetime. But I suppose, it isn't meant to be."
"Grandma," I take a deep breath, as I take her hand, willing myself to gather up all my courage. "You won't need to worry about me, honest. Because I do have someone – I've had the same someone in my life all these years, and it'll be eight years this fall, come November. I have a man who's waiting for me, he's already waited through four years and two major deployments, and after all this time, I'm still absolutely sure that he's the only man I want to be with for the rest of my life."
"Eight years ago," says Grandma slowly and thoughtfully. "Eight years ago, you applied early decision to MIT. You had been such a sweet, polite, and obedient girl, until you went off to boarding school and became this headstrong little thing, always wanting to be independent. You insisted on driving yourself to college, saying you could save your father the expense of shipping your car there; though looking at the way of things now, perhaps you did have the right of it after all.
"And then you went head over heels about a boy that year, an upstart kid from the ghetto you somehow met in one of your classes over there. You were so infatuated with that young man, though for the life of me I don't understand why; you wouldn't give poor Charles the time of day, even though he was utterly besotted with you. But I never thought such a relationship – if it could even be called one – would ever stand the test of time. He'd never be able to look after you the way you deserve, not when he didn't know any way of existing except from hand to mouth."
"But he has," I point out. "He has been looking after me, all this while. He's the reason why I've been able to afford our help and still have a decent amount of money saved up in the bank. And Sophia, who's been here with me day and night – she… she's his sister."
The only reply I get from Grandma is a silent nod, her mouth drawn into a tight straight line, before she closes her eyes, a signal that this conversation is over. I suppose it's already as much as I can hope for anyway, to get acknowledgement; for I've never been rash enough to believe it possible to aim for approval.
"Good night, Grandma," I say to her. "I'll see you in the morning tomorrow."
And the only indication I have that she hears me is the nod I get in reply, before I switch off the lights and settle down on the sofa bed, alone with my thoughts as I ponder the youthful "infatuations" of Elliot daughters come and gone: Mom's with Father, Liz's with William, Mary's with Charles, and mine with Fred. If there's anything all the Elliot women have had in common through the generations, I realize, it's been our tendency to fall in love young; though I, the only one who dared to pursue a life and a partner outside the traditional Elliot mould, might well become the only one who won't wind up having my youthful memories of love tainted with disappointment, jealousy, or regret.
Week five is when we get to a turning point of sorts – Grandma no longer has the strength to make it to the bathroom, so we start using a bedpan and adult diapers instead, and the trays she gets at mealtimes are hardly touched even though I try my best to tempt her, even offering her morsels of the fancy meals that Father brings in for the rest of us. Sensing what might be in store, Sophia no longer alternates with me to spend the nights; even though we're technically only allowed to have one caregiver staying over per guest, we resolutely take shifts sleeping on the single sofa bed and sitting up in a chair, exploiting every loophole they might have by posing as a guest and a caregiver, with complete disregard for the limitations on visiting hours. And they close one eye to us even though they know we're flouting the rules, because they know what's going to come, and that I won't be able to handle it alone.
On Saturday morning, Cheyenne bursts into the room bright and early, the minute visiting hours open up.
"Anne, you need some fresh air," she declares, taking in my bedraggled appearance and unwashed hair. "Let's go for a short run, and then I'll take you home for a shower before you come back. You'll only be away for an hour or so – and you'll feel so much better after this."
A change of environment and a shower sounds like heaven to me, so I agree; and as we break into a leisurely jog along the lakefront, on a warm, sunny morning for February, I start to feel a little more like my usual self again. Then I see her – an elderly lady, wrapped up in a warm puffy coat with a blanket across her knees, sitting in a wheelchair enjoying the lake view, with a younger woman who must be her daughter, by her side. Reflexively, the same thought I've always had for twenty years straight since my childhood enters my mind: I'm so thankful my grandma is healthy for her age and doesn't need to be confined to a wheelchair. And then I stop short in my tracks, realizing that isn't even true anymore – for now, Grandma is confined in hospital, with an unknown quotient of life left to go, in an even worse state than being in a wheelchair.
Cheyenne, who is a few paces ahead of me, must've realized when my footsteps ground to a halt, for she turns around and comes back to me, putting an arm around my shoulders.
"Anne, don't cry," she says gently. "It's OK, we'll go back now, and then I'll bring you right back to your grandma, OK? It'll be fine, honest."
I follow her blindly as she leads me back to her car and then drives me back to the hospital. Like a sleepwalker, I navigate the hallways, for by now, the location of Grandma's room is imprinted deeply in my subconscious. We've only been gone around half an hour, and she's still sleeping peacefully, as is Sophia, who told me she's not a morning person and waking her up early on weekends would put me in deathly peril. So, I absently grab the topmost set of clean clothes from my duffel bag, and then head straight for the bathroom, turning on the shower at full blast to wash my sweat and tears away.
As week six unfolds, my heart breaks over and over again as the ritual of changing adult diapers becomes the only thing punctuating Sophia's and my days. Grandma has always been petite, but I never quite realized just how much the illness has shrunk her. The surgery, of course, has taken its toll; and for every month since she started having to use a walker, she's become a little frailer, a little thinner, a little more bent. And what I see now is the cumulative effect of all these months, chipping away a little more each time at her strength and her dignity, until all that is left now is barely more than a shell of skin and bones. I start chiding myself for all the times I used to wish to stretch out time, for I wonder how much she may have been suffering, whether she might have been in pain with me none the wiser, through these three long years. And that is when I begin to feel ready to let go; not for my own sake, but for hers, because I know that letting go is the only way that I can release her from her suffering.
By the beginning of the seventh week, Grandma spends almost all of her time sleeping, and hardly ever speaks anymore. She sleeps with her mouth half open, her breath coming in shallow gasps, and I spend the hours on tenterhooks, knowing and dreading and praying all at the same time. Even though Grandma is beyond all conversation by now, Father, Liz and Mary hang about for hours every day, lackadaisically flipping through the channels on the TV which is perpetually set to mute. The whole Musgrove family pops by, with their perennially cheerful faces assuming a sombre attitude for once. Hetty and Lulu burst into hysterical tears when they see Grandma, and I need to usher them out into the hallway before they upset everyone else in the room. I bring them down to the food court where I buy them the most decadent ice cream sundaes I've ever seen, then text their parents to let them know where we're waiting so they can collect the twins whenever they're ready to go home.
All this time, Sophia has remained doggedly by my side, determined that I should not be alone when the fateful moment happens. Yet as we slip into the weekend and Grandma still hangs on in there, her vital signals still going steady although she's unconscious all day by now, we realize that we don't know how long more of a road we're still in for. On Sunday close to noon, when Father, Liz and Mary show up after brunch, Sophia declares that she's taking me home to freshen up. I've gone through all the clothing in my duffel bag twice over already, and my hair feels completely ratty because I haven't washed it in a week, so a refresh and recharge are much welcomed and needed.
It's around 2 p.m. when Sophia and I get back to the hospital; this quick pit-stop has been barely enough for us to toss the past week's laundry into the washer, and for us to get quick showers and wash our hair. The house, in any case, is in a complete shambles because nobody has done any proper cleaning for the last seven weeks, ever since before Grandma got admitted to the hospital, but this isn't the right time for us to bother about that. What takes us completely unawares, though, is that the most rarefied of all our guests in the first few weeks, Madam Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, have actually come back; they're in the room, talking to Grandma even though they know she can't answer, saying the usual polite nothings they always say. They did tell us that even if Grandma can't talk to us, she'll still be able to hear, so I hope she knows they're here and haven't forgotten us, which should give her the assurance that all is right in the Elliot world.
As they keep talking, the thermometer beeps, and I realize that Grandma is starting to spike a fever. Sophia dashes to the bathroom to grab a bowl and wet a cloth, which I place on her forehead. And then, it happens all too quickly; the vital signs, which were slow but steady all these days, start to plummet quickly, and in less than half an hour, she's gone.
All this time, we take turns to speak into her ear, telling her how much we love her; it's what the doctors said we need to do, because hearing is the last sense to go. I keep on saying the words, over and over again, struggling to keep the tears out of my voice, all the way until the nurse ushers us out of the room so she can start cleaning Grandma up and unhooking her from all the machines.
And then I slump into a plastic chair in the hallway, my whole world spinning around uncontrollably. She's gone, I realize, and slowly, a strange sense of peace creeps in around the borders of my immense sense of loss, blanketing me in a shroud of stillness and darkness. I picture Grandma in a far away galaxy, smiling down at me, whole and healthy again at last.
In the course of everything after that, the one thing that anchors me is the constant of Sophia's arm around my shoulders; she's the one who dives back into the hospital room to retrieve our duffel bags, who leads me along an endless set of hidden corridors as we follow Grandma, whom they wheel in a sealed box, down to the morgue; and who holds me in her arms when they open up that box to allow us to identify Grandma's corpse, a shrivelled shell of her former self, the one I knew and loved, before the undertakers come to collect her.
I hardly know what excuses I gave to Father, Liz and Mary before getting into Sophia's car, for with Grandma being gone, it doesn't matter anymore what they think or whether they know who she really is. Sophia drives us back to AJ's parents' apartment building, grabbing our duffel bags from the trunk and handing me mine before we make our way upstairs.
"You poor child," says Mrs. Croft, enveloping me in a giant hug. "I'm so sorry."
Nobody expects anything out of me at the Crofts'; I spend the rest of the day blankly staring at a wall as afternoon turns into evening, and food materializes in front of me at some point. I pick at it, for I know I need to eat even though everything tastes like cardboard, and when they realize I'm done, the plate just disappears as if by magic. Mostly I am overwhelmed and immobilized, both by the suddenness of it all as well as the sea of conflicting emotions: sadness, emptiness, loss, guilt, and yet relief. Yes, relief – for, I realize, I've done it; to the best of my ability, I've ridden this journey with Grandma all the way to the end, making sure she knew she was loved every inch of the way, and doing the best I could to mitigate whatever pain and suffering I knew of at every stage of this battle. Three years and two months – that was far more than the doctors had dared to promise us, and greedily, I'd wanted more and then some. But more, at what cost? Would I have wanted to drag out the last three weeks into another year, into infinity? Buried as I am in my complex world of grief, I let the everyday sounds of the apartment pass me by, as I huddle into a ball on the couch, letting my tears flow as they may.
The hours pass, and someone wraps me in a blanket; it's Sophia. She tells me it's time to go to bed and invites me to join her in the guest bedroom, so I can have a proper place to get a good night's rest, for all of us have been terribly sleep-deprived the past few days. And with her comforting presence next to me, slumber eventually claims me.
We sleep well into the morning, for both of us are bone tired after all the interrupted nights in the hospital. As I sit at the Crofts' kitchen counter, still in a daze, shoveling cold cereal mechanically into my mouth, my cell phone goes off – of course, it's Father.
"Anne, where are you?" he asks. "You went off with the help last night, and we were so worried when you never came home."
"I'm staying with a friend for a while," I reply. "I'm sorry if I worried you. But I was so out of it, and I can't bear to come back and see the house without Grandma in it, not yet. Please give me some time."
Father clears his throat loudly to convey his disapproval, before he continues. "Ahem. I know it's difficult for all of you, and Elizabeth and Mary are also as grieved as you are. As am I. But you'll regret it if you don't do your filial duty. Tomorrow, we're going to the funeral home to pick out the casket and flowers, and I hope you'll deign to come. It's the one last thing that we, as a family, can do for your grandmother."
Without a word of complaint, Sophia delivers me to the funeral home and waits outside; she knows she's persona non grata in this family affair. I hate all of this, the ornate wooden caskets with their silk linings and the elaborate floral wreaths, all empty symbols of pomp and circumstance that can't gild the simple truth that she's gone, and she won't be seeing the inside of our house again. Mutely, I nod or shake my head at all the options, letting Father have his way about things. The only one thing I pick out is her photograph, an old one from the early '50s with her hair in a stylish permed bob, tucked behind her ears to show off her pearl earrings, her head cocked at an angle just so and her chin resting on a delicate gloved hand. She already was the mom of an elementary school-age child back then, but she still looked as if she hadn't a care in the world, and that's how I want to remember her.
The rest of the week passes in a state of half dream and half reality; usually, I always try to be helpful and useful, but ever since the day Grandma passed on, I've been like a dead weight. Even though a tiny portion of my conscience pricks me about imposing on the Crofts, I have nowhere else to go, for I still can't fathom the thought of seeing Grandma's house without her in it. Although the Crofts' apartment has only two bedrooms for its four inhabitants, with me, practically a stranger, intruding on their territory, I still feel as if I have more space than I would have had back home with my family, for all of them dance around me without judging, without prying, and without asking me to do anything; they're willing to let me just be, even though I pass each day as it comes, not knowing when I'll ever wake up to a day when I feel like becoming a normal functioning human being again.
On the day of the funeral, an early day in March, it's unreasonably warm and sunny again, almost as if the outside world is urging me out of my grief and teasing me to re-participate in it. I see all the same people who filed into and out of Grandma's room in the first weeks of her hospitalization gathered at the church, all somberly decked out in black. Father and Liz weep decorously and silently, while Mary ugly cries noisily through the entire service, even though I put an arm around her shoulders and stroke her arm, as Father admonishes her to keep quiet every now and then with a stern finger on his lips. The service goes on and on, feeling almost interminable, until it's Father's turn to deliver the eulogy.
"We are gathered today in memory of my dearest mother-in-law, Mrs. Rowena Stevenson," he intones. "I could not be more indebted to anyone other than her, for it is she who raised my three daughters after the unfortunate demise of their mother when my eldest was barely out of the nursery.
"As you all know, respectability is paramount in the Elliot family. And that is exactly what I owe to Rowena – her time and her effort in making my girls into the three young women you see today, who are, for the most part, the very image of decorum and propriety. When I met her daughter, who later became my dear wife, back in the heady times of the sixties, we were carefree students whose only wish was to take in the sights of Paris. And that we did, for I will be eternally grateful to Rowena and her dearly departed husband for allowing their precious daughter to spend a year in France with me, which turned out to be the very best year of our lives.
"When we came back, I knew I had met my soul mate in Elizabeth, known affectionately as 'Eli' to Rowena and everyone else who was closest to her. Even though Eli was taken from us far too soon, Rowena was the one who kept her spirit alive in my household, taking her place to read bedtime stories to my girls, ensure they had a good education, and see my Elizabeth Ann, my wife's dearest namesake, to a successful pageant career before the age of ten. My younger daughters, Anne and Mary, who were mere infants when their mother passed from this world, would never have amounted to anything if Rowena hadn't taken them in line and cultivated them to assume their rightful places in society. Even during her final, tragic illness, she was the one who housed them after Elizabeth and I relocated to Palm Beach for my retirement, and I hope they have learned enough at her knee to become virtuous and proper Elliot women even without the benefit of her guidance moving forward.
"I have been most blessed to have a mother-in-law like Rowena, and she shall be dearly missed in the Elliot home. Thank you for coming here to celebrate her life with me, and I hope that for all of you, as for my dear daughters and myself, her memory will always stay alive."
Somehow, just like always, Father's managed to make the eulogy all about him. About him, the Elliot legacy, and the Elliot family pride, to be exact. He doesn't even care that I, not Grandma, was the one holding up this household in his absence for the past three years, not that I want him to blow my trumpet when this day is supposed to be all about Grandma. But still – I regret, for I wish I had thought of volunteering to give a eulogy instead of spending the whole week treading water in the Crofts' apartment, running away from it all. I could've done Grandma better justice, and given her the respect that she was due, but because I was a coward, I've eternally forfeited my chance.
That thought is the one that haunts me all the way through the burial service, even as I toss the bouquet in my hands onto the casket before they cover it with earth. Resolutely, I focus my eyes on the framed photo propped up against the headstone, showing how pretty and carefree she was before Mom brought Father into her life, before we came along and she had to go back to changing diapers, kissing scrapes, and dealing with all manner of girl drama. That's how I want her to be – whole and happy and carefree again, and I want to believe that up in heaven, she's smiling down on me like that right now. I may have done the one thing that disappointed her deeply in choosing Fred, but I swear I'll atone for it by having a steady, frugal and responsible life from now on, so I can do her proud.
When Sophia delivers me back to the Crofts' apartment after the funeral, Fred's already there; he made his leave and travel arrangements the minute he heard the news.
"Anne, how are you?" he asks, gently brushing the side of my face with his hand. And it's the obvious concern in his eyes, plainly reflecting how worn down I feel, that breaks down all my remaining defenses.
"I'm OK," I start to lie, before my true feelings break out from the dam that I'd carefully constructed all week. "No, I'm not OK. I don't want to go back to a home without Grandma in it, so I'm hanging out here, even though I'm useless and don't help out with anything, and there isn't enough space here for all of us, especially now when you're here too. I missed my chance to give a eulogy and tell the world just how special Grandma was to me and to our family. I've got to go back to work now, because my reason for being on FMLA is gone, but I've forgotten how to do anything because Grandma's the only thing I've thought about for the past two months. I – I don't know. I just feel so tired, and I don't know what I'm going to do from now on." All my energy spent, I wrap my arms around him and bury my face directly into his chest, my shoulders shaking as I finally allow myself to cry my eyes out.
Wordlessly, Fred holds me in his arms as I sob into his shirt, and I feel his hot tears hitting the top of my head tucked under his chin. I know his tears are for me, not for Grandma; for he has never met Grandma in his life, and all the information he has about her is by proxy from me. He's only ever come by our house once, at the end of that summer after freshman year when he got his private pilot license. Apparently, Father had found him cruising around our neighborhood, though he wouldn't let Fred come in to see me, so the only way I knew about it was because Father later asked me if I really had a black boyfriend, for he was certain that Fred was an impostor.
"Did he look like this?" I'd asked, holding up a photo.
"How could I possibly tell?" Father had said. "To me, they all look the same."
That incident was pretty much the start and end of any association Fred had had with Father and Grandma, and yet he has to tolerate my grief for a person who never got to know him and never wanted anything to do with him. We spend that night camped out in the Crofts' living room in silent but companionable grief; at some point, he brings me a tray of food and urges me to eat, but for the most part we simply hold onto each other as he lets me cry myself to sleep.
It's only the next day that he springs into action, waking me up gently in the morning.
"Anne, you'll need to go home sooner or later," he says. "So I'm gonna go home with you, and see you settled before I get back to base. When are your folks leaving?"
"Today," I reply. "They said they'd stay until the funeral, and then they'll go back to Florida. They said they've left the condo for too long, in fact, though none of us could possibly help it."
"OK. We'll go tomorrow, then. And for today, you gotta listen to my command, because I'm a First Lieutenant now and am up to be made Captain anytime. And I command you, to go get some breakfast and then we'll go get ourselves outside."
After breakfast, we walk to the #12 bus stop and take it to Belle Isle. I never knew that getting out of my inertia and the confines of the Croft apartment would make me feel this much better, but somehow, the fresh outdoor air helps me to clear my thoughts. We stroll at a leisurely pace to the beach, where we plop down side by side on the sand, staring at the Detroit skyline across the river.
"Feel better now?" he asks.
"Kind of," I reply. "It just feels weird, to be getting back into life when Grandma's gone. And I still feel at odds about wanting her to be in a better place, when none of us know whether things are really better on the other side of this life. I mean, there are so many things about her illness that I missed, and so she may have suffered more on this side of the earth than she needed to, and that makes me feel guilty. And in spite of all that, a part of me is relieved and thankful for her suffering to be over, even though I just wish we had more time with her. If I love her, how could I want anything but more time?"
"Did she ever tell you how she felt about it?"
"She said, once, that eighty-eight years was a good long life, and that I shouldn't be worried about her because she was fine. But still, I wish I'd done more to make her proud."
"We'll always want more time for the folks we love. I wanted more for my mama, too. She never saw her thirty-seventh birthday," he states, matter-of-factly. "She never lived to see me graduate, get my commission, never saw me being a winner at life. But I think she knew Sophia would raise me right, and so she didn't regret when she let go. And your grandma, I'd like to think you turned out so well, she'd have no regrets too."
"I hope so," I reply, the spring breeze caressing my face. "I sure hope so."
Fred brings me back to Grandma's house the next day, and I see that my Golf is neatly parked in the driveway; somebody, probably Sophia, had the presence of mind to retrieve it from the hospital parking lot after I'd abandoned it there. To my surprise, everything is spick and span even though the whole house was a dusty mess the last time I set foot in there. A note left by Father on the side table in the living room gives me the explanation why:
Anne, Father has written in his elaborate cursive script full of curlicues. Remember you will always be an Elliot and make this house worthy of our name again. We called in someone to restore it to our usual standards, and I hope you will keep it this way.
Over the next couple of days, Fred lives with me in Grandma's house; it doesn't feel right to usurp anyone's space, so we occupy my usual room even though it's the smallest one and nobody else is here, as Charles has also informed me by text that Mary is staying with him. Fred makes sure we do all the most difficult things while he's with me, even though he needs to become a bit of a drill sergeant on purpose to keep me moving forward. We manage to pack up and donate all the medical stuff Sophia brought back from the hospital: Grandma's walking frame, the remaining stash of adult diapers, and the unopened cans of powdered Ensure I stocked up in the pantry before her final hospitalization. Even though we go through her clothes, makeup, and shoes too, sorting everything out neatly, I decide I'm not ready to send any of it away just yet.
"What are you gonna do about this house?" he asks. "You won't be here for long, till you come live with me."
"I'm not sure if I'll have any say about that," I admit. "For all I know, it might go to Father, not to me."
Even though Fred has to leave after a few days, Sophia takes his place so that I won't be alone. And the following week, after I've gone back to work, I get an unexpected call from Mr. Shepherd.
"Miss Elliot, have you ever read your grandmother's will?" he asks.
"No, why?"
"Well, it's only right for me to tell you what you'll be receiving, then, after the probate process is complete. She left her house to you."
"To me? Why me, and not Father?"
"Your father is well provided for," says Mr. Shepherd in his officious voice. "Mrs. Stevenson was very thorough about dividing her estate into equal portions. Your father and your elder sister will be getting equal shares in her unit trusts, so they can add the interest to the family income. Your younger sister, Miss Mary Elliot, will get all her jewellery and all her cash, so she can pay off her student loans for her higher education. And her house, which would have been passed on to her daughter if she had not predeceased her, is for you."
I ponder the ramifications of that for days, wondering how to make the best use of this legacy when I don't plan to be in the area for much longer. And then, it hits me – what if I can help Mary to start her life with Charles on the right footing, so they'll be able to stand on their own and won't become a further drain to the family finances? I could rent this home to them, at a rate they can afford, and once they pay up enough to cover the market value of the house, interest free, I'll sign it over to them. Then Mary's inheritance will be more than enough to pay off her student loan debt from her two years of university, since her two years of community college cost very little. And even though her dorm is a sunk cost this semester, she can start living here instead for the next school year, because I now have enough saved up to get her a car, though it'll have to be a used one.
Sophia approves heartily of my plan and spends the remainder of her time in Detroit setting Mary and me up for our future lives. As Sophia walks me through everything that I need to know in order to manage a household on my own, I'm horrified and mortified to find that I was so financially illiterate; I honestly had no idea how many health insurance policies I had, or that I was signed up to a policy at work while Father was getting Mr. Shepherd to take one out on me at the same time. She shows me so many things – what the title on a house should look like, how much home and car insurance will cost, how to fill out income tax forms properly, and all the things I need to budget for to keep a home in good shape.
"I guess I should be ashamed of myself," I admit. "Mr. Shepherd took care of so many things for Father and Grandma, that I don't even know how to handle the basics."
"Everyone needs someone to teach them," points out Sophia. "And I never had anyone showing me this stuff too, so I learned it all the hard way after I married AJ. But now that you'll be marrying Fred before long, he'll be counting on you for all this, the way AJ needs me to handle it for him."
"You mean, didn't you teach Fred all this stuff too?"
"Some of it, yeah," she says. "But don't be surprised if Fred is more sheltered than you about all these things, 'cause everything he's got was given to him by the military. Just like AJ, he hasn't got a thing on him that wasn't issued by the Navy." She chuckles.
As for Mary, Sophia and Mrs. Musgrove go all-in on preparing her to be a wife, too. With it being almost April already, we know it's probably a lost cause sending her back to her dorm, so she stays on with Charles since Sophia has taken over her old room over here. When she comes over with Charles on the weekends, we teach them both how to cook, and also bring them out grocery shopping so they know how much stuff costs. I split the chores equally between her, Sophia and me, rotating tasks so she gets to do something for the house every week.
The weeks go by, and then months; as spring semester wraps up, I hand over my keys to Mary and pack up to move to Texas, where I've found an apartment close to Fred's base to live for now, as well as a new job in San Antonio. And once Sophia has deposited me safely with Fred, taking this chance to visit him at his base while she's at it, she'll have her own sweet reunion with AJ too. As she and I get ready to board our flight to San Antonio, I hold my head high, knowing I've made it through the worst of my struggles, and ready to move forward into my life with Fred, back together at last.