For You(30)
Author: Mimi Strong

He pressed the button again and the images reversed. He threw his hands wide to share his amazement with me. “Magic,” he said.

My grandmother came into the room. “We’ve had that TV for fifteen years and he just found that feature today.” She smiled at him, and I could tell by her expression that things were going well today. With his Parkinson’s, he’d been back and forth a number of times, his old self for a while, and then the personality my grandmother called Blank Man.

I’d first met him when he was returning from Blank Man, taking a new pill that had originally been developed for patients with Alzheimer’s. The medication agreed with his chemistry, and I’d noticed him having more personality each time I saw him. I didn’t know how the magic of the medicine worked, but I was glad it did, or I wouldn’t have gotten to know him.

Bell came running in to greet me, her arms raised for me to pick her up.

“No, kid, you’re too heavy,” I said.

“But you neeeeeever pick me up anymoooooore,” she whined.

With a sigh, I got down on one knee, offering her my back. “Saddle up, banana breath.”

She jumped on me and exhaled audibly in my face.

“Wow,” I said. “Banana and peanut butter.”

My grandmother had her camera out, and was already taking our picture.

Warily, I said, “These aren’t going on the internet, are they?”

She dismissed this idea with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, I only upload the flattering ones.” She smiled as she reviewed the photos on her camera and then held the display up for Bell to see.

“I’d rather you didn’t upload photos,” I said.

My grandmother and Bruce knew whose daughter Bell was, and that I didn’t have legal custody of her, but they didn’t seem that concerned about people finding out.

She said, “It’s just a few of my old friends, ones who’ve moved away. I call you both my little darlings. It’s always little darlings, so I don’t get mixed up.”

“You’re supposed to say granddaughter and great-granddaughter.” Bell was still on my back, and she was combing through my hair with hands that seemed sticky, tugging at strands.

My grandmother’s lightly-wrinkled face became more wrinkled with a pained expression. “I don’t like to lie.”

I wanted to tell her I didn’t like to lie, that nobody liked to lie, yet sometimes you had to, but I bit my words against my tongue. She’d done so much for us already, and all she wanted in return was our love.

She said, “What’s wrong? You look sad.”

“I’m fine.” I adjusted my arms and hoisted Bell a little higher on my back.

“Let’s get that lunch on,” she said, nodding toward and then walking into the kitchen.

Grandma and Grandpa Jack’s kitchen was the best part of their house, or any house I’d been to. The jar on the counter always held home-made cookies, and the cupboards had more food than some convenience stores. She had one tall cupboard that was on wheels and pulled out to reveal a dazzling stack of boxed food—most of it labeled President’s Choice, the store-brand stuff from my grandmother’s favorite store, Real Canadian Superstore. She went there two or three times a week, and had started buying clothes and other household things for me and Bell. The two-wheeled grocery cart had only been the beginning. I tried to pay her back, but she’d always say she lost the receipt and couldn’t remember how much, or that they’d been part of a two-for-one deal, so she didn’t technically pay anything for the socks she gave us, just the ones for herself. She didn’t have any problem with those sorts of lies, and I was grateful.

Compared to how I’d grown up and been living the last few years, my grandparents seemed wealthy. It took a while getting to know them to find out they didn’t have much beyond their one car and the food in the cupboards. When Jack first got sick, he had to retire seven years earlier than they’d planned for.

My main plan was to not be a burden on any of them. Eventually, I wanted to repay them and help support them when they needed it. I didn’t know how yet, but I hoped something would come along. As we ate lunch together that afternoon, I noticed Grandpa Jack seemed a little fuzzy, and the spoon full of soup kept missing his mouth. I silently prayed that he wasn’t getting worse, because then my grandmother would be too busy to help babysit Bell. I felt terrible for being so selfish.

Bell and I did our usual Saturday things, including a walk to the park with the good swings. I brought my cell phone with me everywhere, just in case Sawyer called. I was of two minds. I wanted him to stay away and leave me be, without his trouble and heartbreak, but I also kept eagerly checking the display for missed calls.

On Sunday, at Bell’s insistence, I phoned Natalie, or as Bell called her, Taylor’s Mom.

When she answered the phone, I said, “Hello, Taylor’s Mom. This is Bell’s Mom.”

She thought it was the funniest thing, and seemed happy to hear from me, which was a relief. She invited us to come for a play date and dinner on Monday, after school. I only had three shifts scheduled at the bar that week, and Monday wasn’t one of them, so I accepted.

We made plans for her to pick us all up at the girls’ school.

Monday.

Sawyer still hadn’t called. I wondered what he was doing. By now I was furious he hadn’t called, imagining him saying sweet things to some new girl.

Maybe he’d been looking for me at the bar.

On the way to Bell’s school to meet the girls, I stopped by the bar, using the excuse that I was picking up my paycheck.

Sawyer wasn’t there, and the waitress on shift was the surly one who didn’t like me much.

I got my check, then signed the back and Bruce cashed it for me, using funds from the register.

“You need to get your bank account set up,” Bruce said, frowning from within his dark beard as he counted out the money.

“Right,” I said. “Is there a particular bank you’d recommend?”

He eyed me suspiciously. “The one across the street from here would probably be convenient. The one I send you to sometimes to get change. Perhaps you remember from one of the dozen times you’ve gone in? There’s a big counter, and a bunch of bank tellers with bank-teller haircuts, and piles of money. Just big ol’ piles of money everywhere.”

“Right.”

“And I need a photocopy of your social insurance number. Not for me, but for the accountant.”

I looked around for a reason to change the topic. I didn’t actually have a social insurance number, though I’d been born in Canada and just had to apply for one. Of course, once I put my name and current address into a computerized system, it would only be a matter of time before my past caught up to me.