“They’re not here!” I say with the woeful exaggerated sarcasm of a twelve year old girl being forced to once more help her senile grandfather search for a misplaced item. “This whole, babysitting the elderly thing, is getting old, fast,” I think to myself as I grab the carton of orange juice and take a swig before replacing it and letting the fridge door clang shut, the sound of rattling condiment bottles a small balm to my irritated, preteen soul.
“Did you check the oven?” comes the confused suggestion from the basement.
“Yes, Gramps,” i sigh and roll my eyes. Wait... the basement? “Gramps, you shouldn’t be down there!” I rush to the door and down the rickety stairs, amazed he managed to maneuver himself down them without breaking a hip. I follow the sounds of squeaky cupboard doors opening and closing and the distinct rattle of him searching through one of Dad’s ‘junk drawers’. Obscene shadows are thrown on the walls by the still swinging light bulb. Well, at least he turned the light on. Attempting not to be seasick, I pull up next to the old man and rest a hand on his elbow. He’s standing looking confused - not a rare occurrence these days- but what has him scratching his head this time is a closed door in front of him, on of the storage closets that house any one of a myriad failed inventions of his crackpot son, my Dad.
“It’s locked, why is it locked?” He wants to know, irritated. “Davey knows better than to keep anything from me, Margret, what’s he hiding in there? Do you think it’s drugs?” He turns to look me in the face, his bleary eyes a bit unfocused. This isn’t the first time he’s addressed me by my dead grandmother’s name, and so long as it doesn’t progress to something weird, I’m fine with the misappellation.
“I locked it, Camron, I put the cleaning supplies in there, and I didn’t want him using them all in one of his experiments.” It’s a lie, but it sounds believable, and trying to explain the truth to him when he;s like this only leads to increased agitation, not a good thing for an alzheimer's patient to be.
He nods, placated by my explanation. “Let’s go upstairs and have a cup of tea, CAmron, the kettle’s hot.” He pats my hand, smiling and nodding in agreement, allowing me to lead him back up the precarious stairs. Note to self, replace the lock on the basement door!
I get him settled with one of the tough ceramic mugs, and add enough milk to his tea that even if he slops it in his crotch - again - we won’t have to be making a trip to the emergency room. Then I go back to his room, where he insisted that his quarry was not, and take a look around. Not seeing the object of my desire in any of the usual places, I kneel on the floor next to the bed to look under there, because every preteen knows that this is the black hole of every bedroom, snatching up everything from homework to the mate for your favourite pair of shoes. I reach under, feeling around, and grin in triumph as my hand closes around the treasure we’ve been seeking. However, my triumph is short lived as something skitters over the back of my hand, and i let go, screaming and hopping up on the bed. “Grampy! Grampy!” I call it a squeaky, panicked voice. He comes barrelling into the room and finds me standing, cowering in the corner of the bed.
“What is it?” he demands, concerned.
“There’s something under the bed,” I whimper, not at all ashamed of my childish conduct, being still safe in the age range where I am content to waver between needing my grampa to save me from the monster under the bed, and wanting to throttle him for needing me to be the grown up half of the time.
“Ah,” he says, knowingly, and kneels to investigate. I continue to mewl like a lost kitten while he bravely flounders around under the bed with one arm. Hen stands, his hands cupped in front of him, one holding his missing toothy pallet, the other, a small frog. “Here they are, Eavie.” He looks so pleased with himself for finding them, and rescuing me, that I don’t have the heart to roll my eyes. I step down off of the bed and let him wrap me in a hug, no longe rafraid of the tiny frog now that I know what the mysterious creature is.
“Love you, Grampy,” I whisper, and hold him tight.
“You too, Eavie, you too.” He croons, and rocks me in place.
One thought keeps running through my head, “It feels good to be needed.”
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