Ditching Grandpa
When the oldies just won’t leave!
I swear, ditching Grandpa was way more difficult than getting twenty-five-year-old Brendon to leave the nest! When Bren scored a good-paying position at the local cannery, I told him straight, “It’s time to think about contributing to the household!”
My son looked at me suspiciously. “What is contributing, exactly?”
“Well, there’s only two of us, so I suggest you pay half of the household bills,” I replied firmly.
“Food?” he inquired, hopefully.
“Half, at least.” I shrugged, semi-apologetically.
Brendon vacated his bedroom within a fortnight and I acquired the sewing room I had always wanted! Win-win for me!
It wasn’t that easy with Grandpa.
Grandpa arrived approximately a month after Brendon left.
I came in from one of my walks on Monday afternoon to find the old fellow sitting in my favorite lounge room chair.
“How did you get in?” I screeched, shocked to find someone in my house, uninvited and unexpected. Then I remembered. “You still have a key!”
The old man shrugged and reached for his tobacco and pipe, sitting on the side table.
“Don’t even…!” I screeched again. “There is no smoking in this house!”
Grandpa’s hand slumped back into his lap. “When did you become so bossy?”
“At least twenty years ago,” I replied, moving toward the kitchen. “I need a cup of tea.”
“Where’s that deadbeat you married?” he called from his comfy throne.
“Grandpa!” I called over my shoulder, “You know Joe left when Brendon was one year old.”
“Sure, sure.” Was that the sound of tobacco tapping into a pipe? “Where is the little fellow?”
I turned and belted back into the lounge-room — Grandpa’s pipe and tobacco lay untouched.
“Come on,” I censured. “You know that Brendon is all grown up. He’s out on his own now.”
Grandpa looked momentarily confused as he stuck a gnarled finger into his left ear.
“What are you doing?” I asked, appalled at the force he appeared to be asserting on his eardrum.
“Damn shit keeps building up in there. My ear wax sets like cement–makes it hard to hear.”
I shuddered as he pulled his finger out to carefully examine the prize.
“Grandpa, what say I make a nice cup of tea? Then I can drive you home?”
With a flick, the old man tried to dislodge some fluff from the arm of the chair. His eyesight and his arthritis made accuracy impossible. Appearing mightily displeased, he turned his attention to me.
“Not going anywhere. Marge said to wait here until the Uberie thing comes. In the meantime, I’m to keep an eye on you.”
Mention of my grandmother set my already strained nerves on edge. “What on earth are you going on about? You know Grandma passed a couple of years ago.”
My grandfather shrugged, “I’m not silly–I don’t have old-timers’ disease.”
“Alzheimer’s,” I corrected him, thinking he must be suffering some sort of dementia. “So, why do you think Grandma told you to wait here for an Uber?”
“Last thing she ever said to me–Wait at Loren’s for the taxi, and keep an eye on her until it arrives. So, here I am. Waiting and watching as instructed, until the goddamn driver gets here.” He looked at me with impatience. “Why can’t I light my pipe?”
“It stinks, and it’s bad for everyone’s health. Shouldn’t you go back to the nursing home? They’ll be concerned. I’ll call them, shall I?”
“Never!” he screeched. “I don’t like that place. They don’t take care of me and I’m lonely without Marge.”
Something was bothering me. “Why did you take two years to follow Grandma’s last instructions? And, for that matter, why on earth would she want you to keep an eye on me?”
“You have a habit of wandering off when we take our eyes off you,” the old man explained.
“When I was two, maybe,” I replied, completely losing patience.
“We are waiting here until the cab comes, and that’s all there is to it!” he retaliated.
Returning to the kitchen, I secretly called Grandpa’s nursing home. They needed to know where he was–maybe they would send the hospice bus to collect him.
They didn’t answer the bleeding phone that day, the next day, nor the day after! I was beginning to think Grandpa had a case against them for neglect.
For three entire days, Grandpa sat in the corner of my lounge room, neither eating nor smoking. Occasionally, he dropped into a deep slumber, awakening to continue his grumbling about Uberie things that didn’t arrive, and the stupid house rules I enforced. I was becoming concerned that he would pass out from lack of food, and that I would have a case to answer regarding elder abuse.
Unexplained things seemed to be happening at night. I awoke several times to the aromatic smell of tobacco smoke drifting up the stairs, and I fancied I heard Grandpa talking to someone on more than one occasion. When I went downstairs to investigate, the old codger was fast asleep, puffing out little snoring noises. His pipe was cold to the touch and his tobacco pouch remained full.
The whole thing was very puzzling, and I wanted answers.
On the fourth day, I decided enough was enough! I wanted my house and independence back.
Snatching up my purse, I declared firmly, “That’s it, Grandpa. I’m going to drive over to Belladale to see why they aren’t answering their phones, and why they haven’t sent someone to look for you.”
“I told you!” He answered gruffly, leaping to his feet with surprising agility, “I have to keep an eye on you and we have to wait …”
“For the bloody Uber!” I snapped. “Well, you can come with me. The Uber driver, should he actually turn up, can wait, or come back.”
“That won’t do.” Grandpa clawed at my handbag, trying to wrestle it from my arm. “You are going to mess things up. For once in your life, do as you are told!”
“When did I not do as I was told?” I asked, shocked by his words. He stopped tugging at my bag and gazed directly into my eyes.
“When you were little, you deliberately ignored our safety advice. Got burned, half-drowned, cut yourself, fell down a well; so many things that could have killed you.” He drew an impatient breath. “You were wild as a teenager, drinking, taking drugs, getting pregnant with Brendon — you drove us all crazy. Then you married that awful bloke, against advice, and you know how that turned out.” The old man’s eyes searched mine–looking for what, I wondered?
“So?” I questioned. “It’s my life, and I did alright by Brendon in the end. Now he’s gone, and I want my independence back.”
I lifted the old man’s hand from my bag and let it drop gently to his side. He was still staring at me intently.
“Then why, if you were so fiercely independent, did you let that moron of a husband back into your life?”
Upon hearing Grandpa’s words, my blood froze in my veins.
“What…?” I whispered. Something evil was knocking at the back door of my mind.
Grandad reached out, carefully took my hand in his, and tugged me toward the laundry door. The door swung softly inward as we approached, making my heart tremble and my hands grow sweaty-cold. I felt the old man’s palm in the small of my back, urging me to pass over the threshold.
I stopped, turning to face my elder. “I can’t,” I whispered fearfully, knowing the terror that awaited beyond.
“Do you remember, now?” he asked gently, relief showing through his craggy features.
I nodded. I remembered the beating, I remembered falling, I remembered a dreadful blackness absorbing my consciousness. I remember being disappointed.
“There was no tunnel, no golden glow to run to. There was nothing, and I felt so alone.”
“You’re not alone, now, love.”
“So, you, too?” my voice quavered.
“They found me on my bedroom carpet, the same day as you made your acquaintance with the laundry floor.”
Grandpa suddenly raised his head, listening; a slow-spreading smile lit his weathered features.
“Ah hah! I think the Uberie thingy has arrived. Did you hear the horn beep?”
I shook my head, allowing him to guide me back to the living room. Strangely, my front door was open–the threshold was encased in a glorious golden glow; a living haze that almost appeared to breathe; welcoming and enticing.
Arm in arm, Grandpa and I moved forward, allowing the encompassing light to engulf us as we moved through the portal.
Waiting at the pavement was a beautifully sleek, silver limousine with its rear door open. Embossed above an intricate logo were the words, ‘Celestial Uber’.
“Hurry up, love,” urged my grandfather, holding the door as I climbed onto soft leathered upholstery. “Marge doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”
