A Bargain

Sensitive Content: Grief of a family member.

“If I give you my three Twix bars, what are you giving me?”

I took a deep breath and scanned over my enticing stash of goodies. I knew he wanted my Almond Joys; those are his favorite. I secretly want to keep them, but he will be happier with them.

“I will give you all my Almond Joys if you double the offer,” I said with an eyebrow raised and a sweet, devious grin.

“You got a deal. You are getting good at this, you know that?” he says through a deep laugh as he gathers more candy to trade with me. His head gives a slight shake of approval and disbelief at how much I have grown. I respond confident in my negotiating skills, “I know. I have been preparing for this every year.”

Those were our Halloweens. Grandfather taught all the kids how to outsmart the other person without being rude. The others grew bored of the annual trading ceremony, but I stayed. I stayed with eyes hungry to learn and a continuous yearning to be wiser than the year before. Candy negotiating was not the only thing passed down to me. I eat tomatoes like apples with the right amount of salt and always remember to go outside over the grass because the seeds will spill everywhere. I laugh at the painful magic tricks that would only fool a young child. I expect a t-shirt every Christmas with a quote of something I said at least once throughout the year. I am prepared to run for my life the minute his pointer finger wiggles like a short, fat worm. If I am not in the mood to laugh until tears welled up in my eyes, I know to hide behind Mom. I am trained to look for a pack of Mentos to eat on every car ride. When I turned 21, I remembered gin is better in Bloody Marys than any other liquor.

* * *

Would he be angry if I could barely look down at the coffin? My head is spinning, and I feel bile rising in my throat as I watch Grandma bend over to give him a final kiss on his head. 

“Goodbye, babe,” she manages to get out through her tears and shaking hands.

I am next. The carpet is thick enough that I can feel each footprint made. My gaze is blurred and fixated on the bright metal that was chosen for the coffin. It looks like a mechanical coffin, not fit for a body that was once so warm. The top of my nails lightly brush against the cold metal, and I realize I am there. My eyes do not permit themselves to meet the closed ones below. Everything blurs as a voice cuts through, “I am graduating soon. Mom can drive you both up there.” My mouth hangs open after my pathetic attempt to say something.

The last few memories strangle me. When his brain forgot how to speak, I stared with anguish trying to figure out if he knew I was sitting in front of him. Dad is lifting his coffin into the elongated hearse. My vision is still a lost cause. I was in the care unit a few weeks earlier, watching his hands pick up the crayon to color another picture. I wonder if he knew that it was his little candy hustler talking to him when he stared beyond my eyes, laughing in the silence of the activity room. He could not stop laughing. I laughed too. Mom and Dad had their gaze locked on us when my mouth was stuck in a contorted smile and tears slipped through the crinkles on the sides of my eyes. My heart told me I would never hear his voice again. People in this care unit are filled with relatable stories and prayers that are supposed to bring comfort. It amazes me how the human species continues to live knowing loss is inevitable. It is a consuming, stalking presence. One day, it approaches—silent and expected. 

* * *

I grip the leather seats under my legs as I grit my teeth. The skin on my face is cracking dry but feels damp at the same time. I am constantly looking at my feet and up at the sky through the window trying to figure out where he landed. “The House of the Rising Sun” blasts out from the radio my father turned on.

“It’s a sign,” he says as he places a hand on my mother’s leg. She holds her head in her hands.

I have heard that when people pass away, they usually give you a sign. I see no cloud or tree that resembles him at all. It is a bright, sunny day with nothing unique about it. He is simply gone. I do not hear anything when he is lowered into the ground. Grandparents have a reason to die. It is because they are old and have lived long lives. Nursing homes have become a punchline for the soon-to-be senile and a comedic threat for parents with children who have the power to put them in one. Celebrating the “long years” he has lived feels less like a celebration and more like grief over everything that would have existed in those years.

I do not have a grandfather anymore and, since this is common, I am expected to celebrate his life lived. Last month’s AARP magazine mentioned that 80 was the new 65.

* * *

Everyone is walking away from the gravesite with tears, hands holding, and some trying to crack a joke they think he would have laughed at. It is quietly beautiful, yet I feel rage with this acceptance everyone else seems to be working on. The wind is so frigid the sun cannot offer a slice of warmth. All I can think about is how cold he must be in the coffin below our feet. Someone needs to get him out. Why is no one hearing him?

* * *

Everyone is eating and drinking Bloody Marys in his memory at a restaurant down the street from the cemetery. By the time I turned 21, we were not sure if he could eat unsupervised. A Bloody Mary was never shared between us. Apparently, choking is a big concern with dementia patients. How degrading. Grandfather was too strong and healthy for someone else to feed him. He would have hated it.

* * *

I am on US-33 hearing the buzz of the phone under my leg. Friends are sending their apologies and plans for which bar we are going to tonight. It is just a grandfather after all. You are lucky to have had him this long, they said. These trees and these clouds still show no sign of him.

A voice on the radio belches out in a low bass range. My hands go numb, and my eyes sting with tears rising to fall. I slowly turn it up to make sure it is the same song. My chest sinks in, and I feel as though I will collapse right on this wheel.

I hear the man sing of sin, misery, and the rising sun. I throw my head back into the driver’s seat cushion. I did not know that was one of his favorite songs until after he was left in the ground. Someone’s eulogy told the story of him dancing and shouting the lyrics on a neighbor’s porch with a gin in his hand. There is no spirit above this car giving me a sign. I never want to see an Almond Joy again.