grandma Read online

  “It’s okay, gra’ma.” Caleb held a hand up, gesturing that he was fine. He forced himself to smile. “Really. It’s okay,” he said.

  Mary stopped her efforts to stand, but her features communicated her disbelief. She watched him with keen interest, remaining stoically silent as she waited for his ire.

  But it never came.

  As Caleb calmed down, he began to reach a point of clarity. He realized that he had no say in whether his grandma lived. Or died. She had reached the- in a macabre sense- wonderful point in life where one got the choice as to when their end would come. Many in the world never achieved such luck, if one could call it that. Caleb looked at his grandma as she watched him, and he felt overcome with a sense of love and compassion. Sighing, he resolved to support her in whatever it was she wanted.

  “I love you, gra’ma,” he said. Then he cried.

  Chapter 2

  “My friend is being abused.”

  Caleb blinked. His jaw dropped. He hadn’t been expecting that.

  After they’d gone through a poignant, tumultuous round of emotional rawness neither one of them had experienced in a very long time, they’d gradually gotten back to something akin to an even keel. Which was saying something, since both of them were not exactly known for their sensitivity. His grandma was a stoic woman, and blue-collar to her core. She prided herself on her toughness and resilience, and these ideals had been inadvertently inculcated into Caleb over the many years he’d lived in her household.

  Mary stared at some distant point on the fading, jaundiced drywall as she waited. Caleb watched her, bouncing one leg and biting his lower lip. He wanted to go out and smoke a joint, but he couldn’t. He was starting to really want a drink, and that worried him. Six years sober, and he couldn’t think of time in the last few years where he craved the escape of alcohol much more than he did right in that moment. Caleb took a deep breath. He was just overwhelmed. He decided he needed a little more time and information.

  “What… can you start from the beginning?” Caleb said. He rubbed his temple idly. Closing his eyes, he sighed. “Gra’ma, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am really busy. I’ve never… I would never intentionally avoid you, okay? But I am busy, gra’ma. You said you wanted to talk about your will. But you don’t have a will because you…” despite himself, Caleb smiled. “How did you say it? You ‘ain’t got shit but a bunch of bills?’”

  “Well, it’s true.” Mary protested.

  “Yeah, well, whatever. Gra’ma, what does your friend have to do with any of this? You already sprung your damn… cancer on me. And then you told me you don’t want treatment. What? What more do you want me to take in?” Caleb asked, his voice breaking.

  Mary reached forward and patted her grandson’s knee. “It’s okay, son. It is. I want you to promise me something. It’s all I want. I can go happy at this point if you promise me,” she said.

  “Promise you what, gra’ma?” Caleb asked.

  “I want you to investigate this. My friend, she’s being robbed blind and beaten by this nurse. I know it. But…”

  “Oh, damn it, gra’ma, are you trying to get me to do a story on this?” Caleb asked. A tsunami of disgust and revulsion swept through his veins. For a moment, he almost indulged the urge to get up and walk out. He forgot for the briefest of seconds that he was in the nursing home with his precious grandmother. People contrived to find creative ways to try to coerce him into writing hit or puff pieces all the time. And when they couldn’t buy him, they often resorted to threats.

  “Yes, I am. And don’t you damn it me, Caleb Stuart Conway. I used to wash your mouth out with soap.” Mary took a deep breath. “And I changed your little briefs after you pee-peed in them. I cut your peanut butter, and peach jam sandwiches diagonally for years because you hated it down the middle. I drove you three hundred miles to go to your basketball tournament, and I was the only one there when you got out of prison. I gave you the loan you needed to start your memorabilia business after, too.”

  “Gra’ma…”

  “It’s a story, isn’t it? If you could prove that there are nurses abusing the elderly?” Mary asked. She didn’t normally plead. But she was pleading.

  “Gra’ma…” Caleb paused. Who was he kidding? His grandma was dying. She had just made this her last wish. Of course, he was going to do it. He didn’t necessarily like it. He didn’t really want to. But he had to.

  “If only that memorabilia business had panned out,” he said. He chuckled and shook his head.

  “If you want to get testy, son, I’ll just remind you of why I don’t have anything to leave you in a will. It’s because…”

  Caleb held up a hand. He squeezed his eyes shut. He clenched one hand into a fist so tight it hurt his hand. His nails dug into the tender flesh of his palm. “I know, gra’ma,” he whispered. Memories haunted him. They rattled the wooden floorboards and whistled maliciously from their concealed positions behind the walls.

  Back when he was a drunk masquerading as a lawyer, he’d stolen from his grandma. Caleb was the reason his grandmother had nothing to leave him. He’d taken it all.

  “Why do you think your friend…” Caleb stopped. He licked his lips. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look at Mary. “What is your friend’s name?” he asked. Might as well start there. It always began with a name. He felt idly behind his ear and made a face when he didn’t come away with a pen. Settling for his phone, he unlocked it with a few quick, jerky swipes of his index finger and readied himself to take notes.

  “I don’t think. I know,” Mary said, her eyes hot with defiance.

  Caleb smiled ruefully. He nodded. “What’s your friend’s name?” he repeated.

  “Sue Johnson,” Mary said.

  Nodding, he typed that in, trying to focus. It wasn’t easy. The day had taken a tumultuous turn, and the dark clouds lingering on the horizon of his mind threatened to unleash their fury again at any moment. Caleb felt that familiar thirst again. He ignored it. “And why do you… what did you see that will help me investigate this?” he asked, careful to rephrase the question.

  Part of what he did frequently, now that he was an investigative reporter for the Investigative Reporting Institute, was interview people. It required a certain amount of tact and discretion. Caleb often found himself saying the same thing different ways, testing various phrases for effect.

  Knitting his brows, he decided to go with that. Caleb didn’t like it, but if he assumed the mantle of the interviewer and delved into the facts at hand, he could probably avoid all of the crazy, cacophonous crap swirling in his brain.

  “What do you mean?” Mary asked. Her voice shook.

  “Did you see something? What first gave you an indication that abuse might be occurring?” Caleb asked.

  “Well…” Mary seemed confused. Her eyes grew distant. Her hands shook.

  “Did something out of the ordinary occur? Something unusual?” Caleb asked, fishing. He decided to wait. The silence lingered, threatening to undo the professional, detached demeanor he’d somehow summoned suddenly.

  “Sue and I have been friends for a while. She was pretty much the first person I met when I got here.” Mary started. “It’s been… well, it’s been a while. A few years? I don’t know. Anyway,” Mary waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, Sue was never the shy sort. She liked to be loud and boisterous. That’s what drew me to her. She played a great game of Euchre and her husband had been in the cement mason union, too.” Mary sniffed.

  “So, you two got along,” Caleb said after a few seconds. He wanted to help continue the conversation. He didn’t really need the backstory, though it kind of fascinated him- he’d never really seen his grandma socialize, not with her peers. So, this revealed a side of her that Caleb didn’t know. However, he reminded himself as he waited, tapping one foot on the floor, that he was letting her talk to try to get to the essential information. He needed the story.

  Sometimes the s
tory needed to be coaxed out.

  “Yeah, you can say that. Your grandpa was in the cement masons union.” Mary said. She smiled dolefully. “Anyway, I’m ramblin’. So, she was a vivacious broad, Sue. But then this new nurse got hired on. I think she came in from a temp agency or somethin’. I don’t know. And Sue changed.” Mary said.

  “How did she change?” Caleb asked.

  “She wasn’t vivacious no more,” Mary said. She laughed. It was a cold, mirthless, cynical laugh.

  “Okay, but what does that mean? Did she act depressed?” Caleb asked.

  “Yeah, she stopped showing up to breakfast. She looked tired all the time. She didn’t want to go outside. She refused visits from her daughter. That in particular struck me as odd, because Sue has the cutest little granddaughter,” Mary said. She stated this matter-of-factly.

  “Do you know which nurse? The nurse’s name?” Caleb inquired.

  “Well, no. But I know the nurse who works with her. It’s Laurie McPherson.” Mary said.

  Caleb blinked. That was oddly specific. Direct in a way that nothing else had seemed to be in the last few minutes. The certainly and clarity associated with that statement seemed significant to him. He took note of the name and then focused on his grandmother. “Do you have something against this… Laurie McPherson?” he asked carefully. He watched her. He tried to gauge her reaction.

  Normally transparent as an office window, she clammed up now. Mary looked away. Her frown was a thin, tight slash across her face. She held her hands tightly in her lap. Her entire form appeared rigid.

  “Answer the question, gra’ma.” Caleb said. He sighed. He knew then that this was not going to be easy. Not in any sense of the word.

  “Well, I don’t like her, if that’s what you mean.” Mary said. She sniffed.

  Smiling more to avoid the frustration bubbling in the hot cauldron of his overburdened heart, Caleb shook his head. He grunted. He began pacing, walking back and forth across the TILE FLOOR, his head bent, his hands held rigid behind his back.

  Caleb allowed himself to appear lost in thought. He wanted to make his grandma nervous. If she was trying to use him to chase a personal vendetta against a staff member… well, he wish she’d just come out and say so. He’d help, of course. But he couldn’t use his job to do it. That was part of what he was trying to fix. People didn’t trust journalists much anymore. The title reporter had almost become synonymous with politician, which in many people’s mind was nothing more than a dressed-up way of saying liar. Even the appearance of bias would likely get him in trouble with his boss.

  “I don’t like her because she’s hurting Sue, Caleb.” Mary protested weakly. She tried to reach out and grab his arm as he took another turn, but he avoided her reach.

  “I need a yerba matte.” Caleb declared. He didn’t wait. He headed for the door and retreated into the hallway, escaping the cloyingly close air that seemed to raise an invisible hand to his face with a chloroform-soaked rag. He strode briskly down the hall, taking the familiar turns with practiced ease. Trotting across the deserted street to a small convenience store with a cracked front window and no signage, Caleb ignored the high-pitched motion sensor on the door and went directly to the back corner where his favored drink resided. He pulled the small handle and felt a chilly blast of air. Grabbing the cold yellow-and-green can, he pivoted and returned to the front.

  A small Indian man with thinning hair and fleshy red lips and mottled skin stood behind the cluttered counter. He looked up when Caleb approached. “Three oh five,” he said. He wore a gray polo and a heavy gold watch. A pen stuck out of the pocket in his shirt.

  Patting his back pocket, Caleb smiled ruefully. “Do you take Samsung Pay?” he asked.

  The man shook his head. He frowned. “No. Five dollar minimum for card. You have cash, three oh five,” he said.

  “Can I come back? I think I left my wallet at the nursing home across the street. Tabor Pines?” he said.

  “No, you leave here. Come back in with money,” the man said.

  Shaking his head, Caleb stormed off toward the door. As he walked he patted his pants, and discovered that his wallet was in his side pocket. “Ah!” he exclaimed. He turned, pulling cash out as he moved back to get his beverage.

  “Thanks,” he said. Then he left, jogging across the street. It wasn’t RAINING anymore.

  He ignored the security guards again as he returned to his grandma’s room. He hadn’t fully cleared his mind, but he was beginning to formulate a plan of attack. He hated to think that he was approaching this like any other interview, but he had to.

  Caleb was a recovering alcoholic. He’d lost his law license, then worked long hours to build a memorabilia business that went nowhere. Somehow, as a convicted felon, he’d managed to find a good job that he genuinely liked and felt passionate about. His work was his life. It allowed him to feel like he was giving back for all the pain he’d caused. It gave him the illusion of expiation.

  He couldn’t allow anything to mess that up.

  Caleb couldn’t.

  But he also couldn’t say no to his grandma.

  All of which conspired to make this one heck of a stressful day.

  Chapter 3

  “I don’t understand it.” Mary said.

  Caleb took a long sip of his cold drink. A sound of satisfaction escaped his lips. He blinked and shook his head. “Don’t understand what, gra’ma?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand how you drink those things? They taste horrible.” Mary said, scrunching her face up.

  He laughed. Caleb took another gulp. “Whatever. I like it,” he said. He looked around, trying to figure out what to say. It felt like a battle royale was playing out in his brain, with each competing idea fighting with the tenacity of the damned. Sighing, he briefly closed his eyes. Then he opened them back up and looked at his grandma. He smiled. “Tell me why you don’t like this woman,” Caleb said simply. He needed to be direct. He didn’t like it, but there was no way to avoid it. His job was too important to risk it by chasing petty schemes to get revenge.

  “Honest, son, I don’t have anything against the woman. She doesn’t even work with me.” Mary shivered at the thought. “Thank God. Anyway, I’ve barely seen the lady. I just know her name because I’m worried about Sue,” Mary said.

  Fighting the rising tide of questions and even accusations that sprang up in his mind, Caleb waited. He let the silence stretch itself out. He wanted to use that quiet. Sometimes it served to drag the nasty little details out of bothersome interviewees. When that didn’t work, he got up and began pacing again. “Okay, gra’ma. Okay. So, what have you seen? What gives you this idea that this one very specific nurse is abusing your friend?” he asked.

  “Because we all only have one nurse on our case, son. No need to act like a little brat.” Mary said.

  “Okay. But I need details, gra’ma. You want me to do a story, right? You do realize that I can’t just write that some random nurse is abusing some random geriatric patient without proof, right?” Caleb asked.

  “She’s not random, Caleb. She’s my friend. And this is the only thing I want from you before I die.” Mary said.

  Caleb stopped. A pain rippled down his side. He closed his eyes again. His legs quivering, paroxysms threatening to overtake his entire body, Caleb almost collapsed. He felt weak. He wanted to escape. His chest felt tight. His palms started to sweat. Pivoting sharply, he plucked up his can of yerba matte, almost spilling it as he reached his shaking hands to his lips. He drank. The liquid didn’t seem to have any effect. Plopping back down onto the bed, Caleb tried to confront the reality he faced.

  “Please, what have you seen?” he asked, his voice cracking, coming out in a hoarse whisper.

  “She’s had bruises. And, of course, she’s acting much differently. I heard her DAUGHTER complaining one time because she said something about a ring. But, son, a lot of it just intuition. If I had proof, I would call
the damn police, Caleb. I know everyone wants proof. What do you want me to do? I’m a broke old invalid in a shitty little nursing home. Even you think I’m nuts. How am I supposed to get proof? You want me to go get my stuff from the Cold War, the shoe camera or whatever the heck they had in the movies?” Mary was breathing hard. She raised a hand to her chest. “My blood pressure,” she said.

  “Well, the bruises is a step in the right direction.” Caleb muttered.

  “Even if I could get proof, Caleb, they’d just take it from me,” she said.

  “Okay, okay…” he forced himself to take a deep breath. He looked over at his grandmother. She was pallid. Her wan complexion and concerned expression thrust a dagger of guilt into his gut. He pushed a smile onto his face. He quieted the cacophonous clamoring in his head.

  “Why don’t we get some Chinese food?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “You live on that stuff. Is that still all you eat?” Mary asked. She shook her head. “Caleb, I worry about you.” she said.

  “You should worry about yourself. You’re the one with cancer,” Caleb said. He winced. He immediately regretted it.

  The silence stretched itself taut between them. Mary tapped her long, veiny fingers on the edge of the chair as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. She folded her arms over her chest, then undid that and shifted her weight in the seat. She cleared her throat but refused to break the uneasy quiet. She possessed a keen stubborn side like that.

  “I’m sorry, gra’ma,” he said quietly.

  “It’s okay, son. I got through much worse,” she said. A solitary tear slid down her cheek. “Is it raining again? I hate all of the god damned rain.” Mary said.

  “You always have had such a foul mouth.” Caleb remarked, smiling fondly as he looked at the frail old frame of this proud, strong woman who’d raised him.