A Breath Away
A Breath Away
She makes me breathe freely and smile broadly. For one hour of pure pleasure, I shut out relentless, heart-wrenching news and celebrate her overflowing optimism. I call her number and her face appears on my screen. Something’s wrong. I bow my head, only to remember she can see me, too. Chin up, shoulders back, I soldier on with dimples showing and eyes shining.
“Gra-Gra, are you going to die?” Five-year-olds and death defy natural law. Yet, Bennett’s seen death on walks, a trampled worm, a lifeless squirrel, a decaying bird. She knows none will inch its way home, climb another tree, or soar below the clouds again.
A setting sun shining through a prism hanging in her window casts flecks of light upon her flaxen hair and flawless pale skin. Suspended, a teardrop crystal slowly twirls. On a winter night years ago, a cold stream of air seeped through cracks between the glass and window sash as I pulled a throw up over us both, a weary grandmother and a whimpering, sleepless child. We survived that night and more together.
“Oh, no, Bennett! No, I’m not going to die. Not for a long time!” Yet, I wake before dawn from a choking nightmare, sweating, asking and answering the same question. Of course, I’m going to die. More pressing questions follow fast—how and when and who else.
“Your Great-Gra-Gra Clements lived until she was 99, and you know Great-Gra-Gra Fisher is 98. I’ve got 30 more years to be with you, to see you grow into a woman like your dear mother.” My answer masks truths I can’t ignore.
My older brother lives a half-life with a weak heart and Alzheimer’s in a town of 345 without a grocery store let alone a hospital. With or without me, if lucky he’ll die in a flash, or if not, fade away through dimmer days and darker nights. My sister-in-law’s chemotherapy battles level-4 liver cancer, her second cancer fight. Her fears double mine. My confused mother-in-law lies bedridden in a nursing home with six Covid19-positive residents newly diagnosed and three dead last week. Dying without a hand to hold, without a whispered, “I love you” and a kiss goodbye haunts me. Loved ones, mine and more, line up for death before me.
“Why do you ask, B?” Her parents can’t be the source of her concern. They’ve always shielded her from seeing scary movies and newscasts to shelter her from ugliness real or imagined. Telling Bennett older people suffer more from this ‘flu,’ they tried to counter her inevitable daily “Why not’s?” for not visiting us. Did she see the uncertainty in their faces or hear their whispered worries behind the kitchen door? Bennett’s not alone—anxiety rears its head and doubt straddles generations.
“Gra-Gra, I told you my friend Indie and I FaceTime. Her mom’s scared Indie’s grandma and grandpa might die. Indie cried on our call. She’s never cried before!” Tears fill Bennett’s azure eyes; two wrinkles furrow her brow. I want to reach out and hug her. I can’t and it hurts. Her friend had opened a dark door and let in the shadows.
“I don’t know Indie’s grandparents, B. I wish them safe and well. This virus makes people sick, some very sick, and a few may die. Most people won’t. Following all the rules, like your family. Grampy, and I are, keeps us safe.” Lowering my voice and looking deeply into her eyes, I reassure her, “Grampy and I will stay healthy. We’ll all see each other again once it’s safe. I promise.”
Faith bestowed; disappointment delayed. I believe my promise. I’ll forgive myself later if I lied. Bennett looks relieved and blows her nose and coughs. Dark circles under her eyes underscore another truth. With severe asthma, she’s on my at-risk list.
Bennett disappears from view for a few minutes, likely checking with Mommy about brushing teeth and using her inhaler. “Breathing.Trouble breathing,” catches in my throat as I picture Bennett two months ago. Her slipping out of consciousness from a spiked temperature, wheezing, shallow breaths, rushing to the emergency room for oxygen and steroids, antibiotics morning and night, puffing two inhalers multiple times a day, and lying listlessly for ten days panicked us all. Bennett remembers heavy, labored breathing, and I’ve seen the pleas for relief in her eyes too often.
Readjusting my smile as she reappears, I announce, “Time for bed, sweet B, with stories first.”
With tears gone and tensions calmed, we settle in for our new at-a-distance virtual evening story time. While I watch online, Bennett moves in and out of the screen as she changes into her petal pink pajamas with a unicorn and a rainbow. Mythical beasts, magic, and miracles sound marvelous, but my sensible side puts my faith in medical sources, methodical and measured. As she dresses, her strong, thin tummy seems so close I could tickle it. She disappears again and returns with her soft blankets and her first ever stuffy, Mama Owl, fluff matted, two ear tufts flattened to her head with eyes still bright and watchful. Bennett snuggles up in her rocking chair.
Many nights I rocked her as a baby when she came home from the hospital and when her mama struggled for months with her own health and needed me by her side. My heart beats out the memory—Bennett’s warm body next to mine, her cheek and downy head nestled under my chin as I hummed a lullaby, and the smell of her hair as I see her now, at a distance. As she leans into her “I Love You” pillow, a long lock of her tousled blonde hair covers one eye. Like her mom, she flicks it behind her ear. I miss hugging her mom, too.
“What stories do you have for me tonight, Gra-Gra?” Bennett breaks my musing and the silence. “Can we read Just Us Women again tonight? It’s my favorite.” An aunt and her niece go on a road trip together, “No boys and no men, just us women,” Bennett sings.
As I start reading, Bennett’s eyes lock onto the pictures of these two generations preparing for their trip and driving a convertible down the East Coast to North Carolina. If I hesitate, she chimes in with a word or phrase, the story memorized. We both love their doing just what they please on this trip together. No one to say, “We can’t stop” or “We got to make it there before supper time.”
At the end of the story, she asks, “When can we go on a trip together again, Gra-Gra?” Our two families have vacationed together several times a year since Bennett was 6-months old. Last year, on a big anniversary trip, giggling rides on a dozen carousels, lingering picnics in Parisian family parks, and endless adventures on buses, metros, and boats, no longer just transportation but the main event for Bennett, made sweet memories, more precious now. “Or, better than that, when can I come stay with you again?” The familiar foreign now, I, too, yearn for the familiar.
My chest feels tight. Silently my whirling brain answers “I wish I knew.” Hesitating ever so slightly and holding my doubt down, I answer in a shaky whisper, “Soon, as soon as we can.” Struggling to be honest, “I wish it were up to me. To keep you safe, to keep everyone safe, we have to wait several more weeks, maybe several months.”
Bennett frowns. She doesn’t yet comprehend weeks and months. “How many days?”
Like our governor or one of our many health experts, I face an unrelenting audience searching for a timetable, hoping for a return to normal, wishing for comfort and reassurance. I want to see her tomorrow, to hold her in my arms, to kiss her cheeks, to have her fill my home with laughter. I break my own rule of caution and cave in. “How many days until your birthday? A hundred days?”
To my surprise, Bennett breaks into a smile. “I can count to 100. In 100 days I can come to your house. We can go swimming. You can see how much better I can ride my bike. We can make muffins together. Bake my birthday cake. When it’s time for bed, you can lie down beside me to read stories like you used to and rub my back until I fall asleep. When we get up, Grampy will make pancakes and we can have milky tea. Okay, Gra-Gra?” She’s beaming, writing her own story, our story together.
I reach out to touch her face eager for assurance, full of love on the screen in front of me. “One hundred days, maybe more. I’ll count the days until we hug again.” I hold my breath, then release a heavy sigh, push back on fear, and welcome her hope and mine.
Published in Adanna Journal Fall 2020