Harriet Tubman of pedophiles. Did We explain We’s hostility toward women, gaylords, and science? How about common-sense issues like condoms as a way of preventing AIDS and, you know, not allowing priests to rape children’s buttholes and mouths? Did We say anything about that, Grandma? Because I think that We—never mind.”
I half-regretted that almost immediately, too, but before I could apologize she started singing a song in Italian or Nonsense, I couldn’t tell the difference, just sat there listening to her until the antsy feeling I get settled somewhere in my chest and I felt like moving again. I stood up to leave, but something about the smallness of her voice—the pitch, my inability to understand her, the helplessness of it—made me feel lonely for her. So I resolved to stay at least until my mother showed up, and I sat back down as four nurses in pink scrubs wheeled in four carts stacked with orange trays of food. It wasn’t long before my grandmother stopped singing, and then we just sat there quietly, she staring at her special spot on the wall, me at the TV, watching the end of a commercial where a young girl on a beach goes, “I need a brownie…” and then all her friends chime in with, “Oh yeah, she’s menstrual!” and laugh.
Eventually a tray was placed on the table in front of us, on it a dish of pureed meat and what I think was pureed rice, a bowl of something orange, red Jell-O, a glass of thickened water, a glass of thickened milk, and a cup of thickened tea.
“Will you be feeding her today?” asked the nurse.
“I’d rather not,” I said, and she gave me this look, so I said, “I’d better not,” and she gave me the same look as before, in fact I don’t think she ever changed it, so I said I’d try.
I started with the meat because it was the most brown, which seemed important. I took a heaping spoonful, asked, “Ready?” and as my grandmother said yes I stuck it in. She coughed and spit up on her chin. “Wup,” I said, and wiped it off with the bib.
I’m sure at one point it looked as if I was trying to feed her left cheek. At another, her nostrils. I flicked tea off her shoulder. But soon enough we found our rhythm, Grandma and me, and we settled into it. I’d scoop a heaping spoonful of something, hold it up in front of her so she could see it, then announce what I thought it was. “Rice,” I’d say. “I think this is rice.” Then I’d slowly bring it to her lips and wait until she parted them. I’d slide the spoon and its contents in and tip it up until she’d close her mouth around it. Then I’d draw the spoon out and watch her jaw as she swished the stuff around before swallowing. It was strangely satisfying, our method. It meant there was an understanding. Sometimes I think all I ever want is an understanding.
After twenty or so messy minutes I’d spooned in everything except the milk. I felt proud about this. I was excited to tell my mother. See, Ma? I’m helpful. I’m a good boy. Then I considered her note, my watch, did math. She should be here already, I thought. Any minute.
Grandma, I said. Eat this. Eat it. It’s milk. Eat the milk. You need milk, milk’s good for you. Eat it. Eat the milk. Grams. Grandma. Hey. Grandma. Grandma. Grams. Grandma. Eat this for strength. Eat it. It’s milk. Eat it. Eat this. Eat the milk. Eat the milk the pope said eat the milk. The pope loves the milk. Eat it. Eat the milk.
But she just kept turning her head from it, side to side to side, and when she brought her shaking, spotted hand up to push it away, I faked left and went right and snuck it in there, through lips and over tongue, no teeth to stop me. She immediately coughed and retched and began throwing up a jelly rainbow just as my mother walked through the door with a big smile on her face that meant hello how are you I’ve missed you I know you smoked in the house and what’s with the broken statue , then seeing my vomiting grandmother went,
I half-regretted that almost immediately, too, but before I could apologize she started singing a song in Italian or Nonsense, I couldn’t tell the difference, just sat there listening to her until the antsy feeling I get settled somewhere in my chest and I felt like moving again. I stood up to leave, but something about the smallness of her voice—the pitch, my inability to understand her, the helplessness of it—made me feel lonely for her. So I resolved to stay at least until my mother showed up, and I sat back down as four nurses in pink scrubs wheeled in four carts stacked with orange trays of food. It wasn’t long before my grandmother stopped singing, and then we just sat there quietly, she staring at her special spot on the wall, me at the TV, watching the end of a commercial where a young girl on a beach goes, “I need a brownie…” and then all her friends chime in with, “Oh yeah, she’s menstrual!” and laugh.
Eventually a tray was placed on the table in front of us, on it a dish of pureed meat and what I think was pureed rice, a bowl of something orange, red Jell-O, a glass of thickened water, a glass of thickened milk, and a cup of thickened tea.
“Will you be feeding her today?” asked the nurse.
“I’d rather not,” I said, and she gave me this look, so I said, “I’d better not,” and she gave me the same look as before, in fact I don’t think she ever changed it, so I said I’d try.
I started with the meat because it was the most brown, which seemed important. I took a heaping spoonful, asked, “Ready?” and as my grandmother said yes I stuck it in. She coughed and spit up on her chin. “Wup,” I said, and wiped it off with the bib.
I’m sure at one point it looked as if I was trying to feed her left cheek. At another, her nostrils. I flicked tea off her shoulder. But soon enough we found our rhythm, Grandma and me, and we settled into it. I’d scoop a heaping spoonful of something, hold it up in front of her so she could see it, then announce what I thought it was. “Rice,” I’d say. “I think this is rice.” Then I’d slowly bring it to her lips and wait until she parted them. I’d slide the spoon and its contents in and tip it up until she’d close her mouth around it. Then I’d draw the spoon out and watch her jaw as she swished the stuff around before swallowing. It was strangely satisfying, our method. It meant there was an understanding. Sometimes I think all I ever want is an understanding.
After twenty or so messy minutes I’d spooned in everything except the milk. I felt proud about this. I was excited to tell my mother. See, Ma? I’m helpful. I’m a good boy. Then I considered her note, my watch, did math. She should be here already, I thought. Any minute.
Grandma, I said. Eat this. Eat it. It’s milk. Eat the milk. You need milk, milk’s good for you. Eat it. Eat the milk. Grams. Grandma. Hey. Grandma. Grandma. Grams. Grandma. Eat this for strength. Eat it. It’s milk. Eat it. Eat this. Eat the milk. Eat the milk the pope said eat the milk. The pope loves the milk. Eat it. Eat the milk.
But she just kept turning her head from it, side to side to side, and when she brought her shaking, spotted hand up to push it away, I faked left and went right and snuck it in there, through lips and over tongue, no teeth to stop me. She immediately coughed and retched and began throwing up a jelly rainbow just as my mother walked through the door with a big smile on her face that meant hello how are you I’ve missed you I know you smoked in the house and what’s with the broken statue , then seeing my vomiting grandmother went,
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