19…Throw Downs…
The clear weather is not matching either Grandfather's or my moods. We are both out of sorts, with Henry bordering on crabby. Not counting since the stroke, I've seen the O.G. crabby all of a small handful of times, and usually it really just amounts to him being extra-pensive, quiet and thoughtful. He's normally too delighted by life—by everything!—to spend any time down in the dumps. This morning, though, he's straight up glum.
I'm not sure exactly when it started because he seemed okay on waking and during his breakfast, but it might've been after I told him that James and Em were coming to lunch, but Leif could not. His mood was definitely worse after I actually wheeled him through the sliding doors out onto the street. Maybe it didn't help matters that I sort of tricked him. I didn't actually lie, I just said we were going to get coffee, knowing he would think we were going to the stand on the lobby level. Instead, when we got off the elevator, I turned toward the exit. For a second, I thought Henry was going to bolt out of his chair when he figured it out, but I was moving too fast for him to do that. Or maybe Henry was gloomier after we almost rammed into a frowning Dr. Grinch who had just gotten out of a taxi in the drop off area in front of the building. The doctor doesn't normally work Sundays. He has been nicer since that first time I met him, but most especially since he saw all the photos in Henry's room of him with important people. His patients should be important all on their own, but I'll take what I can get. He did make me remove all but one of the rugs in Henry's room, though I can't really fault that. They were in the way.
When I plop Henry's stylish old fedora on his head, which I had cleverly hidden until we got outside, he sat back in his chair, resigned to being outside.
"Isn't the sunshine nice? It's supposed to get above 60 degrees today." I very lamely try to infuse some cheeriness into my tone. He doesn't answer and I'm glad I can't see his face. Originally, I'd thought to take Henry up towards the United Nations building, but I know that's not such a good idea now. We would probably run into someone he knows and I'm pretty sure he is not ready for that.
Instead I push a quiet Henry aimlessly through the streets, knowing I didn't think this through at all.
I shove back my own ill-humor and begin breathlessly telling him about the dance party last night. Literally breathless, because I am engaging previously dormant muscles and am practically wheezing: I didn't know how hard it was going to be to push his wheelchair for any length of time. There is no way I could've made it the ten or so blocks up to the UN building. I give him a very abbreviated and airy version of events. I am in no mood to share everything and I'm certainly not going to tell him about that tape the twins played.
After I tell him about the boys meeting Mrs. Babushka, Henry says, "Stop, child. Come around here." I walk to the front of his chair, kneeling so we are eye to eye.
"Do something for me, okay?" I nod. "Please do not cartoonize Mrs. Babic or objectify her in any way."
"I wasn't," I protest in a small whiny voice. But I think back to what I'd just said about her and maybe I did. A little. I called her Mrs. Babushka, which I usually didn't, and in trying to get Henry out of his funk through humor, I did maybe make the tiniest little quip about her mustache.
"If you only knew what a brave woman she is, probably the bravest person I've ever known, and what unthinkable sacrifices she's made in the service of others, the loss and sorrow she's had throughout her entire life, you could not make her into some mustached crone who sits mutely in the corner. She deserves the upmost respect, not derision."
I want to look away, but Henry's serious eyes pierce mine in place. I am not used to being admonished by my grandfather and this really smarts. He will talk something over with me to help me gain a new perspective, but out and out chastising? Never!
My throat burns and I open my mouth to reply, but I can't find my words. Guilt washes over me. For Mrs. Babic, but also for this whole stupid outing, especially because with this wave of guilt brings the realization that I only forced getting Henry outside to prove something to myself—I am not that girl!—not for the betterment of my grandfather.
Henry pulls me toward him and kisses my forehead, watching me with his discerning gaze. I try to say something again, but my mouth just gapes, wordless.
After a long moment, he says, "You know what? I think we need a Throw Down! Right now, right here in the street."
A Throw Down is yet another family tradition. It is a one-sentence encapsulation of whatever is at the heart of the problem you're having. Only yelled. You're not supposed to really think about what you're going to say, you're just supposed to blurt it out…throw it down…at the top of your lungs. Grandmother issued the most Throw Down challenges, mostly when either Grandfather or I went silent, pondering a problem. You are not allowed to say no when someone suggests a Throw Down and everyone present has to participate.
I'm not particularly inclined to make a spectacle in front of anyone today; I did enough of that this whole weekend. I quickly scan the side street we're on and no one is close enough to really hear us. Besides, this is New York City after all, and people have seen much crazier things.
Henry must be reading my unspoken thoughts. "Yes! In front of God and everyone! You do the countdown." When I make no move, Henry adds, "Go!"
The little bit of sparkle that's returned to Henry's face is probably the only thing that makes me find any words, only they're in Japanese.
"Ich!" We both hold up one finger.
"Ni!" Then two.
"San!" We throw down three fingers and yell at the same time…
"NOTHING IS MOVING FAST ENOUGH!" Henry.
"NOTHING WILL STAY IN ITS PLACE!" Me.
We both look at each other as the words reverberate on this nearly-empty street. A smile creeps across Granddad's face. Honestly, I feel a little lighter for having yelled it out.
"Strangely cathartic, isn't it?" Henry says, echoing my thoughts again. "Do you want to explain?" That's another Throw Down rule. You have to scream out your problem, but you do not have to explain it further unless you want to.
"No," I reply because I don't even understand it myself. "Do you?"
Henry shakes his head and I'm about to say, "Use your words," but he's smiling again so I let him have this one. Besides, I lose my own words often enough lately, so really, who am I to demand verbiage out of anyone else. "But you know I'm going to wonder about your Throw Down sentence," Henry says.
"Right back atcha, G." I reply. What is not moving fast enough for him? Is it healing from his stroke? Speaking clearer? What?
We head back toward the Rehab—my muscles are going to be sore tomorrow—stopping at the little coffee shop across from it. I park Henry at an empty table outside to run in. When I come out with my coffee and his tea, there is a tall man who looks Eastern European, about mid-fifties maybe, with wild brown hair peppered here and there with salt. He's talking to Henry. Or trying to anyway. He looks flustered.
Crap! I should've known not to leave him out there, but I wasn't sure about navigating his wheelchair inside. I hastily put the drinks on the table and stretch out my hand to him. "Hi. I'm Ellawyn Ellis, Henry's granddaughter."
This man looks at me strangely through his smudged eyeglasses before a broad smile stretches across his face. "My word, you've grown!" he exclaims with a very slight and sort of charming German accent. He ignores my outstretched hand, which I let slowly drop to my side.
Uh…I glance down at Henry, who looks all right, I guess, but it's still difficult to identify all his post-stroke facial expressions.
"Oh! Of course, you probably don't remember me. Too young. You were a patient of mine right after your accident. I was at Johns Hopkins then."
Accident? I search his face in confusion, then Henry's—I think there is a little alarm there. Oh…oh. Understanding dawns. He's talking about the accident in Costa Rica when I was seven. I forget that it was my accident, too.
Now he stretches out his hand. "I'm Dr. Ricard Mathieu. Neuroscience, with a specialty in language." He gives me a wild handshake that reverberates through my bones, and then immediately releases it to plop himself across from Henry in what was going to be my chair.
Do have a seat, I think to myself, with no small amount of sarcasm.
"What's going on with Mr. Ellis?" he asks, gazing at Henry eagerly, while I'm still standing and gaping.
I glance at Henry, who subtly shrugs at me, a wry smile now on his face. I shrug a surrendering reply and pull over a chair from the next table. "Um…My grandfather has suffered a stroke," I say uncertainly, sliding into my chair.
"A stroke?" he says, pensively, scrutinizing Henry like he is a fascinating alien creature from outer space. "Interesting. How has this stroke affected his language skills?" He doesn't take his eyes off my grandfather.
"Henry," I say, trying to repress my confounded smile. "How are your language skills?"
"Nah ve'y guh."
"Not very good," I translate, looking at the doctor, who nods, thoughtfully. "But they're getting better every day!"
"How long since the stroke occurred?"
"Three weeks and three days."
And then his face lights up in what could only be described as…glee, exclaiming, "Well this is fortuitous!"
What! Fortuitous that Henry's had a stroke? I am appalled, but then I see that Henry is clearly amused. Bewildered, I look back at this doctor and he is so innocently earnest that I can't really get any ire up.
"Let me tell you about this exciting new research project I'm doing!"
And he does. Albeit in a sort of non-linear fashion.
Henry and I are now watching the mad neuroscientist scurry into the road in the middle of the block, nearly getting clipped by a taxi whose driver yells some foreign curse words at him that I don't know. They sounded good, though.
The doctor seems oblivious to it all. "You know, O.G., last night James said that we knew a lot of characters. The actual phrase he used was, 'Interesting Characters.' And I really wish James could've met this guy, who might be the quintessential embodiment of those words."
Henry says, "Normally, I've found it rare that stereotypes hold true, but maybe not so much in this case." We watch him trip over the far curb onto the sidewalk and then catch himself by grabbing the linked arms of a couple strolling hand in hand. It almost reminds me of me in the eleva…Nope! Not going to think about that right now.
"I'm quite positive that it would be entirely appropriate to objectify and cartoonize this particular scientist," Henry says.
I reach over and clutch his hand, knowing that the creative translation of what he just said is really…I'm sorry for admonishing you.
"I wouldn't really have to employ much of my own neuro-facilities in order to accomplish that," I reply, which really means...No problem. You were right about Mrs. Babic. We're good, G. "I already have a nickname for him. You?"
"Dr. Magoo," we both say at the same time. And then both also add at the same time. "Too easy."
I wonder if Henry remembers watching that cartoon together with Grandmother in…Kiev, maybe?...I can't remember precisely what city, but I know it was dubbed into Russian, which made it hilarious.
"He is a true man of science," says Henry.
"If by 'true man of science,' you really mean completely lacking in normal social skills, then I wholeheartedly agree."
"That's exactly what I meant."
We watch the doctor on the other side of the street walk first one way on the sidewalk, then turn around midstride and walk the other way. Then do it all over again.
"Brings to mind an age-old question…" I say.
"Why did the mad neuroscientist cross the road?"
"That's the one I meant." I nod.
"I got bupkis. You?"
"Nothing. Not a clue. He doesn't even seem to know," I shake my head in wonder.
We watch as Dr. Magoo disappears around the corner, but not before bumping into a woman coming the opposite way.
The live cartoon over, I turn to Granddad. "Why do I feel like we might've just accidentally sold you for spare parts?" Through me as the translator, Henry agreed to go to the mad doctor's new medical complex to get a tour of the facilities and learn more about the research he wants Henry to participate in.
"I might look really cool with screws in my neck."
"You look cool now with your fancy old hat and your brand new warm-ups," I smile at him, getting up from my chair. "But I'm really going to have to put the brakes on Em's extravagance."
"Good luck with that," Henry smirks.
"I know, right?"
