Read Online The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma by Iain Reid - Free Book Online Page B

adventurous one in our group. He didn’t really think that was my nature. He thought it best for me to be myself. When pushed for which one in the group I was, he used the word egghead and asked what the opposite of an adrenaline junkie was. I wonder if I can offer Grandma a sherry first thing tomorrow morning?
    Since picking her up today, I’ve been thinking more about my own earlier life. It’s a reaction I wasn’t anticipating. Her reminiscences have made me introspective, more even than usual. I’ve been in Kingston, this small town, and living in my apartment for a couple of years now. I don’t spend much time reminiscing or chatting or telling old stories or sharing memories of earlier years. I mostly work from home. I don’t know many people in Kingston. I’m often alone. I imagine Grandma’s life at the same age was much different.
    It’s raining now. It must have just started, but puddles are starting to form. Grandma is nibbling her first bite of pizza contentedly. She eats like a bird, with tiny, careful bites. She nods to show she likes it. I take a bite and look out the window again. Even though it wasn’t forecast and I didn’t want to admit it, I knew it was coming. Everything about today had rain written all over it.

TUESDAY
    8:14 a.m.
    IT’S HARD TO wake up. It’s always a challenge for me to shake the fog of sleep. Today is especially onerous. I’m lying on my side in a makeshift fetal position, using one pillow between my knees as the filling of a leg sandwich. A second pillow has fallen to the floor somewhere (my left arm is substituting unsuccessfully for it). I’m squinting at the wall, listening to the alarm’s abhorrent beeping. I don’t always set an alarm. I make my own work hours. Sometimes I work late at night. My typical morning commute is the several feet over to my desk.
    But I’m currently responsible for a ninety-two-year-old. This week is an alarm week.
    It’s stayed so pleasantly dark in my room this morning; cave-like, in a good way. It’s how I prefer it. What normally feels too small and cramped during the day is currently a snuggery. I left my window open, only an inch. It’s filled my room with a tepid briskness only available in this part of early spring. And it’s acting as a natural sedative. With the help of a sheet and blanket, we (the room and I) have hit the optimal sleeping conditions.
    I roll over and reach to switch off the alarm, and then fall onto my back with my arms and legs spread. There’s more, higher-pitched beeping. Somewhere in the world, a large truck is reversing. People have started their day. People are eating breakfast and taking their kids to school. People are interacting. People are working and contributing to society. People are driving trucks in reverse. I should get up.
    I swing my legs out and scratch the back of my head. I stand and stretch, pushing my fists into my lower spine. Without my quilt I feel cold. I feel naked. I see my reflection in the mirror to my left. I am naked.
    The room has suddenly swapped its Spring Freshness for Fucking Coldness. I collapse inward like a folding lawn chair, bringing my arms into my core. My first job is to locate my robe and my shorts. I do so triumphantly, and grab some socks off the floor, and sit down at my desk.
    I scribbled a few notes last night describing some stories Grandma told me. She was in a reminiscent mood throughout supper and dessert. I hadn’t heard them before, and although spotty, they were captivating. I find it easy to forget how long she’s actually lived. I tried to get more details from her, but those are the areas that seem to have crumbled first. Like a Victorian stone wall, it’s the in-between fastening material, the concrete that starts to fragment, while the stones stay moderately in place. There’s a lot she remembers. There’s a lot she forgets. I’m hoping