CARE OF THE DIEING
Marghie enjoyed sitting on her patio, knitting while rocking in her chair. She would always spot me from a distance as I made my way up the hill to my grandmother’s cottage. I could see her eagerly waiting in her chair, like a puppy excited to greet its family. Despite my attempts to pass by with just a wave and a smile, she would always leap out of her chair, open her arms for a hug, and invite me to sit with her on her cherished rocking chair.
“Thank you, Mrs. Vand. I really need to get to Granny’s,” I protested.
“Roger! we have a visitor,” she called out, disregarding my request as she informed her husband of my presence. He was likely lounging on the couch, engrossed in a soccer match, enjoying a glass of ginger beer and holding a cigar between his fingers. After a few noises coming from inside the house, Roger would appear at the front door.
“Hey pretty missy! You look younger every day,” Roger would say with a smile, taking a sip of his ginger beer.
Marghie would chuckle, “Don’t pay attention to him, dear. He used to say the same thing to me all the time.”
And the comments continued, “You look thinner than the last time we saw you. Are you okay?”
“You never bring your friends around for us to meet them.”
“Your grandmother has been concerned about you. She doesn’t like that tall young man who was with you at the store the other day. He was standing with his legs crossed.”
I barely managed to escape alive.
My grandmother was upset, reminding me about the dangers of talking to strangers. I almost wanted to point out that those strangers cared about her more than some family members did. Marghie urged me to visit my grandmother more frequently and even offered to have Roger pick me up in their Camry when my semester ended. I declined quickly.
When the bridge on the northern path to the town was completed, my grandmother would send me her shopping list. I had to pass by the store, take a taxi across the bridge to her house. The trip felt like a burden, and I actually missed the steep trail on the pathway. I hadn’t seen them for months.
It was June, and the weather was chilly with wet ground. I returned early because all the lecturers had moved their lessons online. The roads were flooding, and parents wanted their children back home before it got worse.
Upon entering my grandmother’s house, she handed me an umbrella and a bag with two pots of food she had cooked, judging by the aroma in the house.
She led me out of the house, insisting that I go and visit Marghie. I was puzzled, with a perplexed expression on my face. She never appreciated my questions, but I was thankful for her brief and direct answer.
“Marghie no longer sits outside. Several doctors have been visiting their house, and Roger has been talking to himself.”
Roger was seated on the stairs outside the house, his beard touching his chest and his eyes sunken. Next to him, there was a half bottle of vodka, a box of Panadol, and a butcher’s knife.
Marghie coughed harshly from inside the house, startling me as I dropped the pots. Roger seemed unhappy to see me.
“What are you doing here?” He jumped up, grabbed the knife, and stood next to me in an instant. “Did you come to gloat like everyone else? You should leave us be.”
“Roger, it’s me, Julian!” I was frozen in shock as the knife was inches away from my belly. My life flashed before me, imagining a more glorious end with loved ones surrounding me, begging me to stay.
“I am so sorry, pretty missy. I am so sorry,” he said, catching his breath and dropping the knife.
“Where have you been? Marghie’s been asking about you. Even with her cancer, she wants me to find you,” he continued.
I didn’t answer, just apologized.
Another cough echoed from the house, and Roger blamed himself for Marghie’s condition due to his smoking habits.
My feet wobbled, and I needed to sit down. “I am so sorry, Roger. Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” his defeated voice was heart breaking.
He sat back down on the staircase, gazing at the hill and leaning against the rail.
I contemplated running back to my grandmother’s house, wondering if she knew he would be hostile and if no one else could talk to him.
Quietly, I walked over and sat next to him, offering reassurance. “It’s going to be okay, Roger. Marghie needs you to be strong for her now.”
After a long period of uncertainty, he finally asked, “Will you help me bring her chair inside?”
“Of course,” I replied.
We sat in silence, listening to Marghie’s forceful coughing fits. The sound would linger in our minds long after she was gone.
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