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Show CHAPTER TWELVE One evening in August, Father and Uncle John brought Grandfather home from the hospital, weakened, shaky and changed in a way I could not quite describe. He seemed to be lessened somehow, not smaller or shorter, but drained of something vital to his life. He frightened me and I avoided him as he sat for a moment on the front porch, catching his breath before shuffling on into his bedroom. Grandmother skittered about him, moving furniture that was not in the way, pulling at the shawl around his neck, repeating his name over and over. Father had at last to speak harshly to her or he and Uncle John would never have gotten Grandfather into bed. Mother looked on from the kitchen door and after Grandfather was settled she called to me. As I came in, she was standing at the sink washing the supper dishes, frowning as she worked. "Have you gone in to see your grandfather, Annie?" "No. He's resting." "But he'd like to see you. Go quickly. We have to get home." Mother was upset. Her tone, and the swish of the water in the sink, told me to do as she said. As I walked slowly through the dining room and down the hall, I suddenly realized that my mother had not gone into see her own father and I wondered if I was her messenger, if I was going in her place. Grandfather stretched across the bed, a light quilt pulled up under his chin, rising, falling gently with his gentle breathing. One hand lay out, the fingers curling up. I noticed his fingernails were clean. They usually had dirt under them, dirt from the rose bed or the vegetable garden. |
