Thanks for your review. No, it’s not the “usual aging issues.” Previous versions of this story had tortuous explanations of my condition (which is rare) but in the end it just took away from the focus of the story, so I took it out. The main thing is that you are getting the sense of my despair and sorrow over the health I’ve lost, the things I want to do but cannot. I recognize that the story may best relate to my own generation. The mason jar is simply a metaphor for my lack of energy. If you could identify other “incomplete thoughts” I’d be glad to take a look at them.
Non-fiction / Hanna is sick (Analysis)
“Hanna is sick,” says my son.
I bargain. “We can still come over,” I say quickly and breezily into the receiver. “Granddad and I will watch the big girls while you take Hanna to the doctor.”
A muffled conference ensues on the other end of the phone. I watch our pool sweep make languid arcs through the sparkling blue water. If it were summertime the girls might be in that blue water right now, Granddad teaching them how to swim. If all goes well for me today, there will be grandchildren in their daddy’s old bedroom tonight, playing with the toys I keep carefully arranged for them, sleeping in the beds that wait patiently for them. If all goes well. I am optimistic; I’m having one of my “good” days.
My son returns to the phone, accepting my offer, and I set off for the back of the house in search of my driver. My husband duly recruited, we set out in our new car, purchased after the birth of our fifth grandchild last year, my fiftieth year. The new car has child locks and little hooks cleverly hidden in the seat crevices to secure car seats for imagined excursions that never materialized.
As we cross the threshold of our son’s home our two eldest grandchildren, Faith, five, and Cailin, three, prance about the room. Faith is our first grandchild. I remember watching her birth and shouting “Hooray!” as the doctor said, “It’s a girl;” wondering at this new female among a family dominated by men.
Granddad grabs Faith as she races around him and lifts her high, her long blonde hair flying about. Five-year old Faith is polite and shy with strangers, quiet and hesitant in new situations. But today she displays the many sides of her glorious self: gossipy, giggly, bossy, chatty, a girly-girl with a pronounced passion for jewelry and shoes.
Cailin dances beside her sister. Cailin is our dreamy, whimsical girl -- the child who walks up to strangers and strikes up conversations that seem to be continuations of internal discussions flitting about inside her head. Her hair is dark, her skin pale, usually bearing angry red marks resulting from gentle contact with just about anything. She has a penchant for making up convoluted stories in her sing-songy, breathy voice. She favors crying, even when she is relatively content.
In the midst of the revelry, two-year-old Hanna lies still on a mattress on the living room floor. I study my silly, effervescent little girl, now pale and listless beside a bowl and washcloth. In my mind’s eye I see Hanna the waitress, crayon hovering above paper, dutifully scribbling down my order; Hanna the young mother, galloping across the kitchen floor behind her plastic baby stroller; Hanna the photographer, flinging the backs of her hands over her eyes to mimic a camera, yelling, “Cheese!” I gather her in my arms; she is hot to the touch. Soft brown eyes open, growing wide in recognition as they settle on my face.
“Me sick,” she says in solemn confidence, her expression unsettled, surprised.
Hanna’s temperature is high, says my daughter-in-law. She can’t keep down water or food. She walks “funny.”
I rock Hanna gently back and forth. Every moment with her is a snapshot tucked away and pulled out for later contemplation: the tilt of her small head, the quirky phrases outgrown before my next visit. I don’t know this child like I knew her sisters at her age. I missed potty training: I never got to run Hanna to the bathroom, clean up her accidents, reward her with a sticker. I missed Hanna’s transition from crib to “big girl” bed -- the air mattress I bought for overnight visits sits in my closet, dusty and deflated.
I reluctantly hand Hanna to her mother. My son shrugs into a jacket, promising to call as soon as they know something. Her sisters want to play outside; mother, father, and Hanna disappear out the front door, and right behind them run the two older girls, without so much as a wave to their departing sister.
How immediate is the world of children -- the thought flits through my mind as my husband and I follow the girls outside and observe them dancing on the front lawn in the bright autumn sunshine. My son and daughter-in-law drive Hanna away. It is a relief to push my worries down, to allow myself to be immersed in Faith and Cailin’s animated intensity. Soon I am instructing them on the finer points of Duck, Duck, Goose.
I sit on the prickly grass, feet tucked beneath me, waiting to be anointed goose as in days of yore. I feel myself a part of the Circle of Life, passing tradition down to my grandchildren, although I cannot recall playing this game with my sons and my own childhood experiences as duck and goose are vague, emotionless. Still, I am content to invent a warm spot in my heart for the old game, to view it through the grandchildren’s giddy lens. The girls chase and squeal with their grandfather, they play stand-in for my turn at goose, and I am happy just to sit, and laugh, and be.
Clouds, full and white, drift lazily across the blue sky as Granddad assembles our charges for Red Light, Green Light. I sit as observer in a folding chair. Cailin becomes the signal post, her back to us as she stands at the end of the driveway yelling “Green light!” out into the street. She whirls around, triumphant – then confusion clouds her small face. “What do I say?” she calls to me as Faith and Granddad thunder past her. My cell begins to play the chirpy Lynnrd Skynnrd song that signifies a call from my son.
“We’re taking Hanna to the emergency room,” he says, and I try asking questions but he is in a hurry; he’ll call back. I close the phone and stare down at the flat, pink, rectangular bit of metal in my hand. I reflect on emergencies past: feeding newborn Faith in the ICU; walking toddler Cailin down linoleum-covered hospital hallways, an IV rolling close behind us; standing watch beside their father’s hospital bed when he was a baby with pneumonia. But everyone is fine; they’re all fine now.
I look up to see Cailin chasing pell-mell after the neighbor cat. I shove my cell phone into my back pocket and move my stiff legs in my best approximation of running. Cailin stoops and wraps her arms around the cat, burrowing her face in the feline’s ratty fur. With cajoling, I extract the animal from Cailin’s death grip and it bolts as I lead my wailing granddaughter inside the house. In the bathroom I wash Cailin down while reminding her that the cat will make her sick, she is allergic, we will have to haul her off to the emergency room to join her little sister. Cailin still sobs for the cat. I towel her dry, smoothing her dark hair, my fingers lingering in its wispy softness as she wriggles out the door.
After lunch and picture-drawing Faith convinces us to go back outside into the sunshine. She hops on her new two-wheeled bicycle. Her pink tennies pump the bicycle pedals as she rides in wide, confident circles across the short street, blonde hair streaming behind her, cheeks blooming roses. I stand sentry in the driveway, straining to see the wayward car that might careen around the corner at any moment. Lynnrd Skynnrd begins to sing of home and Alabama.
“Hanna has been admitted to the Pediatric ward,” says my son through the cell phone. I hear the fatigue, the stress in his voice, this quiet son who shows little emotion. The doctors don’t know what is wrong with Hanna; after a mighty struggle they have placed an IV in her little arm that is delivering fluids and antibiotics. They are all exhausted.
My son asks how long we can stay, and I pull the cell phone away from my ear, checking the digital time display on the small screen. It’s getting late. I’ve been resting for days, banking my strength like pennies in a mason jar, saving up for this outing that has now gone way over budget. I must spend my hoard wisely. A familiar wave of bereavement washes over me; I hate focusing on myself and most of all, I cannot bear for my family to become aware of how I have changed, how I can no longer be there for them whenever they need me.
The adrenaline from the days’ worries and activity has dulled the chronic pain in my feet. But the day is waning and so am I -- my feet are beginning to get the best of me. I don’t have my pills, my heating pads, my special pillow; all of the required accoutrements for sleep are miles away in my bedroom. Still I ask my son: Should we stay overnight with the girls? Should we cancel our other plans?
We were to stop at my other married son’s house on the way home today, pick up my two youngest grandchildren, and take them home to spend the night with us. Of course, I made these arrangements when my mason jar was full. I heft the coins’ weight; I might have just enough for my little pajama party if I spend carefully. But Hanna is sick.
In my son’s voice I hear hesitation. I can tell he would like us to stay. I don’t mention the pills I left behind but he can probably hear my uncertainty. He tells me he will come home, and my daughter-in-law will stay with Hanna in the hospital room.
My son arrives, bereft of further information, promising updates when he gets them. We kiss the girls good-bye. Our new car glides west, into the sun, and my husband and I are quiet, forgoing our usual debrief of the girls’ amusing sayings and stunts. My husband pulls the car toward a broad freeway exit, turning up a busy boulevard that winds up into dusty hills. We turn into quiet side streets and park in the short driveway where our second son stands waiting, a child in each arm.
Eighteen-month-old Hailey beams as I buckle her into her car seat and tell her about our upcoming night together. She doesn’t understand what’s going on, but she’s happy to be out of the house and in someone else’s car. I carefully lift seven-month-old Aidan from his father’s arms, nestling him into his own personal safety bunker, strapping him in as his big blue eyes solemnly scan my face. My back seat is full, content, locks and hooks fully engaged. I feel a resurgence of confidence and competence; I have regained a small piece of myself.
Back at home, the children are fed and I am medicated; a happy little group. I bring out the neglected toys from the spare room and the kids play on the floor with Granddad while I steal intermittent trips to the computer, Googling “meningitis.” My cell phone doesn’t ring anymore.
Baby Aidan's claim to fame is his big smile, his belly laugh, his regurgitation of copious amounts of formula until my carpet shows more spots than an African leopard. He is a most handsome boy, our only grandson. He revives little boy memories of snips and snails and puppy dog tails. He resembles my third and youngest son: big, sturdy, good-natured. As he tires of entertaining me with his gastric feats, I feed Aidan a pacifier and hold him close, singing him songs I once sang to his daddy. I lay him down on the crib’s soft blue sheet and he is “out like a light” as my grandmother used to say.
Hailey is in the big girl bed in the next room; I watch her on the monitor, rolling around, standing up, flopping back down. She swings her legs over the side of the low-slung mattress. Her pajama-clad toes whisper across the carpeting as I open the bedroom door. I tell her to get back in bed and she happily complies. I close the door, walk over to the monitor and watch the show begin again, readying myself for my stage cue.
Another blonde, blue-eyed girl, Hailey is soft and silly, feisty and fearless. She associates me with the telephone, regularly holding the cordless up to her father in urgent supplication until he succumbs and dials my number. My answer machine is full of snippets of Hailey’s tiny voice offering salutations. When I need a smile I push the “play” button and listen to the well-worn messages: “Hi” or “Nani” or the garbled, unintelligible string of vowels that I know means “I love you.”
After numerous trips between the baby monitor and Hailey’s bed I concede defeat and lie down beside her. Moonlight streams into the bedroom through the window blinds, illuminating Hailey’s soft yellow curls against the pink sheet. I stroke my fingers through her hair and she lays quietly, unmoving, her big round eyes fixed on my face, her breathing soft and even.
We lay together in the moon-striped bed. All is still; my mason jar is almost empty. It seems that any minute I will look down and find her drifting off to sleep, but each time I remove my hand from her curly head Hailey stretches out her little arm and wiggles five diminutive fingers in the night air.
“Hi,” she says, and I smile in the dark.
Hanna is miles away and I cannot wrap my arms around her; do not know if she sleeps; if she suffers; if she is better or worse. I content myself by drawing Hailey close and humming a lullaby. The round, chubby cheek lies soft against my chin, the warm baby breath comforting on my neck. I rock her back and forth, like my grandmother used to rock me; just the two of us on the big girl bed, my heart aching while it sings.
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dove2010 reviewed Version 1 -
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This is an extremely well written story. The grammar is great and the dialog flows together easily. The images and descriptions you give are great and make it hard for the reader not see and feel what the narrator is seeing and feeling. The reader can’t help but feel for the mother/grandmother who wants to be there for her family like before but can’t.
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Rika_Ricardson reviewed Version 1 -
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This story is very beautiful! The descriptions are vivid and the story is presented in an interesting fashion. The last line, “my heart aching while it sings” is a strong one, leaving the reader with a feel to the bittersweet moment. I loved reading this. Excellent job!
Carina reviewed Version 1 -
Read 11% of the Item
I think this is a nice story and nicely told, but it feels incomplete to me. I think it leave many strings unfinished and this is a little frustrating. I don’t really understand the mason jar, it may need some more explanation. Does the grandmother suffer from a serious illness or is it just the usual aging issues. I am even okay with not knowing what happens with Hanna but I think some of the other incomplete thoughts should be tied up. It does nicely illustrate what it is like to be a grandparent but could just be expanded upon.
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