comes across.”
Marcus nodded. “I could see that. He’s pretty feisty for being in a wheelchair.” And then he laughed. “He’d be pretty feisty out of a wheelchair, for that matter.”
That was the truth.
He tilted his head this way and that, squinting at me. “That must be where you get it, then. It’s certainly not from your mom.” He leaned in to whisper, “I think she means to scare me, but I hate to tell her, I don’t scare that easily. I’m stubborn that way. It’s probably a character flaw.”
I shivered, in spite of myself. A character flaw, he called it. So why did I find it so attractive?
“Because you don’t listen to me, Margaret Mary-Catherine O’Neill. A man like that, he’s nothing but trouble with a capital T. Mark my words. Any man who looks like a cross between a Greek statue and that Harvey Stutz who used to deliver the milk and a whole lot more to the farm wives back in the day is not good husband material, And if he’s not good husband material, why are you wasting your time?”
If I was shivering now, it was because it was most definitely my grandmother’s voice, and it was most definitely not a lingering memory inside my head, come to life in a flood of guilt and self-recrimination. The sound of her voice was so real to me.
It was unnerving.
“Besides,” I told Marcus, ignoring the Grandma C voice, “poor Grandpa G rarely ever gets out from under my mother’s watchful eye. Better to let him have a bit of fun. How much havoc can he wreak from a wheelchair?”
A lot, as it turned out.
The pursuit of Grandpa G’s trail of cheer led us from one end of the hospital to the other, from floor to floor and back again. He always seemed to be one step ahead of us, as though he had us honed in on his radar and knew exactly when to push on in order to evade capture. We finally caught up with him in the cafeteria, holding court with a couple of young student nurses in cotton scrubs giddily festooned with teddy bears and hearts. I’m not sure when the nursing profession decided that little-girl graphics were the fashion wave of the future ... but then again, anything had to be better than white polyester pantsuits they were saddled with once upon a nightmare.
I would have recognized his cackle anywhere. I stopped short and put my hands on my hips. “Grand-paaaaa!”
He nearly jumped out of his skin. “Sweet Jeebus, don’t do that to me, Magpie. I thought you were your mother.” He held his hand to his chest. “You prit-near gave me a coronary.”
Sometimes I forgot that he was not in the most pristine of health. Despite the fact he had been relegated to a wheelchair for most of my adult life, a can of oxygen strapped behind and his muscles weakening until his plaid shirts just hung on his thin body, I still saw him as he used to be (and perhaps still was in his mind)—a laughing, teasing jokester, a loving family man who refused to sugarcoat the truth, and an outrageous flirt who was all talk and no trousers ...
“A legend in his own mind, that man. ”
The voice again. I really wished it would stop that.
I decided then and there that just as soon as I had a quiet moment, my Guides and I were going to have a long chat about the unfairness of giving the voice of my conscience the chiding tones of my dead grandmother. I had been putting up with it for quite a while now, but enough was enough. It just wasn’t right. What if I had an attack of conscience when Marcus and I were... when we ... well, you know. What then?
But that was for later. Right now, top billing went to Grandpa G. I placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Grandpa G, what are you doing down here? Mom’s going nuts over, well, just about everything right now, and you decide to disappear, too?”
He just waved at me with one gnarled hand toughened by a lifetime of hard work. “Aw, you know your mom. She’s just bent out of shape because she ain’t in control of anything at the moment and has to wait
Marcus nodded. “I could see that. He’s pretty feisty for being in a wheelchair.” And then he laughed. “He’d be pretty feisty out of a wheelchair, for that matter.”
That was the truth.
He tilted his head this way and that, squinting at me. “That must be where you get it, then. It’s certainly not from your mom.” He leaned in to whisper, “I think she means to scare me, but I hate to tell her, I don’t scare that easily. I’m stubborn that way. It’s probably a character flaw.”
I shivered, in spite of myself. A character flaw, he called it. So why did I find it so attractive?
“Because you don’t listen to me, Margaret Mary-Catherine O’Neill. A man like that, he’s nothing but trouble with a capital T. Mark my words. Any man who looks like a cross between a Greek statue and that Harvey Stutz who used to deliver the milk and a whole lot more to the farm wives back in the day is not good husband material, And if he’s not good husband material, why are you wasting your time?”
If I was shivering now, it was because it was most definitely my grandmother’s voice, and it was most definitely not a lingering memory inside my head, come to life in a flood of guilt and self-recrimination. The sound of her voice was so real to me.
It was unnerving.
“Besides,” I told Marcus, ignoring the Grandma C voice, “poor Grandpa G rarely ever gets out from under my mother’s watchful eye. Better to let him have a bit of fun. How much havoc can he wreak from a wheelchair?”
A lot, as it turned out.
The pursuit of Grandpa G’s trail of cheer led us from one end of the hospital to the other, from floor to floor and back again. He always seemed to be one step ahead of us, as though he had us honed in on his radar and knew exactly when to push on in order to evade capture. We finally caught up with him in the cafeteria, holding court with a couple of young student nurses in cotton scrubs giddily festooned with teddy bears and hearts. I’m not sure when the nursing profession decided that little-girl graphics were the fashion wave of the future ... but then again, anything had to be better than white polyester pantsuits they were saddled with once upon a nightmare.
I would have recognized his cackle anywhere. I stopped short and put my hands on my hips. “Grand-paaaaa!”
He nearly jumped out of his skin. “Sweet Jeebus, don’t do that to me, Magpie. I thought you were your mother.” He held his hand to his chest. “You prit-near gave me a coronary.”
Sometimes I forgot that he was not in the most pristine of health. Despite the fact he had been relegated to a wheelchair for most of my adult life, a can of oxygen strapped behind and his muscles weakening until his plaid shirts just hung on his thin body, I still saw him as he used to be (and perhaps still was in his mind)—a laughing, teasing jokester, a loving family man who refused to sugarcoat the truth, and an outrageous flirt who was all talk and no trousers ...
“A legend in his own mind, that man. ”
The voice again. I really wished it would stop that.
I decided then and there that just as soon as I had a quiet moment, my Guides and I were going to have a long chat about the unfairness of giving the voice of my conscience the chiding tones of my dead grandmother. I had been putting up with it for quite a while now, but enough was enough. It just wasn’t right. What if I had an attack of conscience when Marcus and I were... when we ... well, you know. What then?
But that was for later. Right now, top billing went to Grandpa G. I placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Grandpa G, what are you doing down here? Mom’s going nuts over, well, just about everything right now, and you decide to disappear, too?”
He just waved at me with one gnarled hand toughened by a lifetime of hard work. “Aw, you know your mom. She’s just bent out of shape because she ain’t in control of anything at the moment and has to wait
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