Drowning Instinct(11)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―Dad,‖ my mom said wearily. She looked up from the windowsill where she was perched with her Crackberry and studying the store‘s spreadsheets. I don‘t know why she bothered to call what she did ―visiting.‖ ―Mom‘s dead. That‘s Jenna . . . your granddaughter?‖

―Don‘t you tell me what‘s what, Betsy.‖ Grandpa‘s lips puckered to a wet, fleshy, liverish rosebud. A permanent trail of drool slicked the left corner of his mouth down to his jaw. ―You think I don‘t know my own wife?‖

―It‘s like I keep telling you,‖ my father said. He was standing on the threshold of Grandpa‘s room, either because the air was better there or he could bolt that much faster.

―They‘ve got to up his meds.‖

My mom ignored him. ―I‘m Emily, Dad. Betsy‘s in Greenwich. Mom‘s dead, remember? She hanged herself in the hotel?‖

―Don‘t I know it.‖ Grandpa‘s face darkened and his gnarled fingers tugged at a fleshy wattle under his chin. Grandpa was Wisconsin-farmer stock. Of all the various . . . ah

. . . life-forms she screwed, Grandma never wrote about her husband. Maybe when Grandma was young and famous and they were still rich (before Grandpa drank or gambled the rest away), he‘d cleaned up pretty good. When they met, she was twenty-five, but he was over forty, widowed once and already boozy. So maybe he left her alone, never screwed her much, loved his vodka better. . . . I don‘t know. If he couldn‘t get it up, Grandma might‘ve been relieved.

Anyway. Since the stroke, a lot of Grandpa‘s meanness poked through, like the skin of the mask he wore was sloughing off, leaving just the snake.

He said, ―Left me her goddamned mess to clean up like she always did. I‘ll bet those maids couldn‘t get the stink of her shit out of the carpet for weeks.‖

―I‘m telling you.‖ My father rocked back and forth on his heels. ―Meds.‖

Mom glared. ―Would you shut up? You wouldn‘t be like this if it was your father.‖

―My father would never be like him.‖

Grandpa squinted at me. ―What‘s wrong with those two, Stephie?‖

―I don‘t know, Max,‖ I said.

―Jenna, I wish you wouldn‘t do that,‖ Mom said.

―Oh, what‘s the harm?‖ Dad said. ―You think he‘s going to remember this in five minutes?‖

―It‘s not respectful,‖ Mom said.

―Like your father‘s ever been respectful.‖

―It‘s okay,‖ I said. ―Whatever makes him happy.‖ That was a lie. I didn‘t care about making Grandpa happy. I hoped he never recognized the real me ever again.

―See? I know my own wife.‖ Grandpa reached to pinch my ass.

Mom stiffened. ―Don‘t touch her, Dad.‖

―It‘s okay,‖ I said, pulling back before his fingers got a good hold. His touch made me wish I could peel my skin like a glove. Luckily, he couldn‘t get at me because the staff had strapped him to the wheelchair. To Grandpa: ―I‘m sorry I didn‘t bring you any cigarettes. I forgot.‖

―Figures.‖ Grandpa turned sullen. ―Stupid bitch.‖

― Jennaaaa,‖ said Mom. ―Don‘t get him excited.‖

―Don‘t blame her.‖ Dad jingled change. ―She can‘t make him any more confused than he already is.‖

―Shut up, you cocksuckers,‖ Grandpa said. ―She‘s my wife, not yours.‖

The doctors had explained that Grandpa‘s stroke was disinhibiting, which was a fancy medical term for Grandpa now said what he wanted whenever he wanted. Come to think of it, that wasn‘t much of a change.

―I told you about listening to those doctors.‖ Grandpa waggled the stub of an index finger in my face. He‘d been such a bad smoker, there were nicotine stains all the way to his knuckles. ―Bad enough I got to sit here all day long. I can‘t have myself a good smoke?‖

―It‘s not allowed, Max,‖ I said. ―I know it‘s hard. I‘m sorry.‖

―Jesus,‖ said my mother.

―Sorry.‖ Grandpa made a sound that started out disgusted and came out a phlegmy, gargly hawk. He spat into his claw-hand, only half landed on his chin and dribbled onto his neck. He smeared the rest of his chest-snot on the twig of a thigh. ―You always were one sorry bi—‖

― Dad,‖ my mother said.

―What?‖ said Grandpa, but you could tell Mom had broken his concentration because Grandpa‘s gaze went muzzy. ―All right,‖ he said, mildly, ―all right.‖ His claws rasped over stubble on his cheek and then his eyes traveled over my face and he blinked once, twice, like a sleepy lizard. ―I‘m just talking to Betsy, we‘re just having a nice . . .‖ He fumbled for the words.

―Father-daughter talk.‖

―Here we go,‖ said Dad.

Mom: ―Dad, that‘s not Betsy either.‖

Grandpa, to me: ―So, girl, where‘s that husband of yours?‖

Me: ―Oh, you know, back at the house, mowing the lawn.‖

Mom: ―Jenna, that‘s not funny.‖

Grandpa: ―He finally doing some work? About time. I told you not to marry him.

Anyone with half a brain could tell he didn‘t have his heart in it when it came to women.‖

Me: ―I know, but what I can say? I was in love.‖

Mom: ― Jenna—‖

Dad: ―I think it‘s pretty funny.‖

Mom: ―He‘s not your father.‖

Dad: ―Thank God for that.‖

Grandpa: ―I am not deaf, Stewart, thank you very much.‖

Dad: ―Glad to hear it, Max, but my name‘s Elliot. Max, what year is it?‖

Mom: ―Elliot.‖

Grandpa: ―What‘s that got to do with anything?‖

Dad: ―What day?‖

Mom: ― Elliot.‖

Dad: ―What? I‘m just orienting him. Who‘s the president, Max?‖

Grandpa: ―Nixon. Hah! Thought you‘d trip me up.‖

Dad: ―You‘re sharp as a tack, Max.‖

Grandpa: ―Damn right. And, Stewart, don‘t think for one second I don‘t know you voted for that damn Kennedy.‖

Mom: ―Oh, for—‖

Dad (thought-bubble): Told you.

Grandpa: ―Smooth-talking, skirt-chasing son of a bitch.

Screw anything with a ho—‖

Mom (stabbing her Crackberry): ―Yeah, we‘ve definitely got to be going.‖

Come to think of it, Bob, maybe Grandpa and Grandma deserved each other.

c

While Mom went to complain to the nurses, I tried to air-kiss Grandpa good-bye.

Only when I got close, Grandpa‘s eyes sharpened and I knew he was seeing me-me.

―Jenna, such a sweet thing, you‘re my little sweetheart.‖ His breath reeked of ancient tobacco, that morning‘s scrambled eggs, and chest rot. ―You come back and visit your old grandpa anytime.‖