I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, and checked in on Gran before heading out the door. She was still sleeping soundly. Initially, I thought that strange as she was usually up with the sun, but I figured she had stayed up way past her bedtime to watch her “stories” as she called them. I blew her a kiss and closed the door to let her get some more rest.
I jumped in my Beater Kia, as I liked to call it, cause the damn thing barely ran, and headed out. The Youth Center for the Arts, a space where disadvantaged and troubled youth got arts training as therapy, had visual arts—one of the subjects I taught—performing arts, media arts and just about every kind of creative expression possible.
When I arrived, my students were happy to see me. As usual, their smiling faces were enough to motivate me to walk into the room and focus all my attention on them. They always lifted my spirits. Despite the fact that many of them had come from abusive homes where they watched their parents suffer through drug addiction, domestic violence, and incarceration, they really wanted a chance at a new life. Each one of my students had a dark story to tell. Each kept some horrific truth buried within them. Yet they still had hope.
I understood their stories so well and saw in their eyes much of what I saw in my own. I taught the one thing I had forever used to escape the feelings of pain, fear, and sadness clouding my daily existence. Seeing your father shoot your mother was not something you ever forgot. Living without both of them was debilitating at times. If I could give each of my students art as a means of coping, I knew I was doing my part to enrich humanity.
I taught them to use their creativity, color, depth, and perception to escape the constant nagging pain of sorrow and disappointment. I felt like I was giving them a steel armor and sword to protect themselves from what society would continue to deliver and constantly awaken within them. Somehow, they knew I was one of them, and luckily, they listened and heeded my advice. I saw so much progress, not only in their artwork but also in their worldview and self-perception. Touching people like that, giving them skills, was something I adored.
After I finished my shift at the center, I went back home. I wouldn’t need to be at the diner until the dinner shift and Mondays were slow, so I took advantage of the few hours I had between jobs. When I pulled the Beater Kia up the drive, a shiver of dread raced up my spine. Something seemed wrong. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but the air was charged with an electricity that had my heart beating out of my skin. I raced up the walkway, fumbled for my keys, and burst through the door.
“Gran, I’m home!”
The house was deathly silent. I had expected to see her either cooking some light lunch for us in the kitchen or watching her favorite programs. Sometimes, I would find her in our garden, as she was always trying to grow impossible plants in the landscaping.
“What about rutabaga? Do you think that’ll grow, Cat? I love a good roasted rutabaga,” she would muse.
“Gross, Gran.” Fancy cabbage roots, no thanks.
“Don’t turn your nose up to em, Cat, they’re delicious,” she scoffed.
Alas, she was able to get a few sad-looking roots to grow, but they tasted bitter and unappetizing. We both had a good laugh. No, rutabaga didn’t really grow too well.
Today, there was nothing but silence. Horrible, sickening silence. I ran as fast as I could to Gran’s room, only to find her still asleep. I must have stood there for a half hour, just making sure that she was still breathing. Finally, when I was convinced that she was breathing well enough, I gently woke her.
“Hey, Gran, it’s three in the afternoon. Do you want to get up or sleep the day away?” I teased.
Her eyes slowly opened, but she looked sick and disoriented.
“What? I didn’t know it was so late,” she slurred, her voice listless, “must be really tired, I guess.”
She slumped deeper into her pillow and closed her eyes again. For the first time in my life, I saw her as being frail and old. When I noticed that she was having some trouble breathing, I panicked and immediately called 911. I was probably being overly dramatic, but I didn’t want to risk losing her because I hadn’t gotten her the help she needed.
When they came to take her to the hospital, she laughed at me for taking her laziness too seriously. I knew she wasn’t being lazy. There was something wrong.
“It’s nothing. I’m old. Old people sleep in from time to time,” she grumbled, “it’s probably just gas.”
“I hope so. What a story that would be if I called in the calvary because you had a mean ol’ fart brewin’.” We both chuckled, but the effort caused her pain, and fear bubbled in my chest as they loaded her into the back of the ambulance.
“Be careful with her,” I instructed.
They smiled, not in a condescending way exactly, because they knew my sentiment. However, they could do their jobs without me, I was sure.
I jumped into the Beater Kia and followed behind them. Worried the entire twenty-minute drive to the hospital, when I arrived, they didn’t let me see her.
“She’s going in for some tests,” a nurse at the front desk informed me.
I attempted a smile, but my insides were ripping apart with stress and worry. Gran was all I had. I spent almost an hour playing Candy Crush on my old, crappy Samsung, freaked out because the whole “in for tests” thing was taking so much longer than I thought it should. I called Ma’s Diner and told them I would be late when I hadn’t heard anything more than “she’s resting comfortably, but can’t be disturbed.”
Deep in my heart, I knew something bad was happening to my grandmother. Finally, I was able to see her for a few minutes. She only opened her eyes briefly. The doctors were not able to give me any kind of indication that she would be alright and they wouldn’t let me stay with her longer than fifteen minutes. By the time two hours passed sitting in the waiting area, I’d had enough. Either I was going to get some answers, or I needed someone else to come sit with me before I had a mental breakdown.
I called Ma’s back and told them I wasn’t coming in that night.
“Shoulda figured you’d skip town with your pile of cash,” Ma barked.
If I hadn’t been so worried, I would have laughed. “Ma, it wasn’t that much money.”
“Sure was a hell of a lot back in my day,” she snapped.
“We’re not back in your day. In this day and age, it’s just a nice little extra. If you really need me, call, but Gran is in the hospital, and it looks like it might be something bad.”
The old woman softened then. “Take your time. We’re fine here. Hope your Gran perks up. She’s a fighter.”
“Thanks, Ma,” I said as I hung up and called my best friend.
Tammy was like a sister and helped me with everything, and had since we were kids. She was especially good to have around when tragedy struck. We met in Girl Scouts; she lived around the corner and I practically grew up at her house. I learned to braid hair in beautiful African styles, and we both were schooled in how to make the perfect gumbo by her Creole auntie. I knew she would be getting off work soon, so I tried not to panic her by letting her know that Gran was in the hospital.