CARE OF THE DYING

Maghie loved to sit on her patio knitting while she swayed in her rocking chair. She would notice me from a mile away as I headed up the hill to my grandmother’s house from college. I could see her fidgeting in the chair like a puppy about to welcome the family back home. Every time I tried to walk past, trying not to choke on my own breath after reaching the peak, tossing a wave and a casual smile, she would jump out of her chair, open her arms in embrace, and seat me on her precious asset.

“Thank you, Mrs. V and. I really need to get to Granny’s,” I would protest.

“Roger! We have a visitor,” she ignored my plea as she announced my arrival to her husband. He would probably be seated on the couch watching soccer, draining a bottle of whisky, balancing probably his tenth cigar between his fingers. After a couple of clamouring sounds from the house, Roger would pop his head through the front door. He leaned on it, his legs bulking on each other. He could barely open his eyes.

“Hey pretty missy! Looking younger than my Mrs. every day,” Roger would start as he took another swig of whisky.

Marghie burst out in laughter, “Don’t listen to him, sweetheart, he says that all the time.”

And the comments went on, “you look thinner than when we saw you, are you okay,”

“You never come with your friends for us to get to know them,”

“We are worried about your Granny, she never comes out of that house,”

“Who was the tall dark man you were talking to at the store last week? We don’t like him. He was looking down on you.”

And I barely made it out alive.

My grandmother made a fuss,

“What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

I always wanted to mention that those strangers seemed to care more about her than anyone in our family, including myself. Marghie urged me to visit grandmother more often, saying that was the only time she cooked because they could smell the chicken curry. She even offered Roger to come pick me up in their Camry when I closed for the semester, but I declined hastily.

After the repairs on the bridge at the northern entrance of the town were completed, grandmother started sending me her shopping list so I would have to pass by the store, take a taxi across the bridge to her house. The trip was a burden, as challenging as going up the steep hill on the other side, passing through Marghie’s house. Grandmother remained silent when I complained, insisting that I would get used to it. I knew she liked having me close by where she could see me.

While at the store, I overheard some whispers about Marghie and Roger not being good. I detested the gossip and vowed to visit them. However, months passed without me seeing them.

It was June, and the weather was chilly. The ground was wet. They shut down the campus, and we all needed to get home before the roads flooded.

As I walked through the front door of my grandmother’s house, she handed me an umbrella and a bag with two pots of food. From the aroma in the house, she had been cooking.

She marched me out of the house, insisting that I go and see Marghie and Roger. I was confused, with a look of perplexity on my face. She never liked it when I asked questions, but I was grateful for her short, straight response.

“She doesn’t sit outside anymore. People have been saying she may be sick, and they sent some doctors over, but Roger’s been chasing them away. He’ll listen to you.”

Roger was seated on the stairs outside the house. His beard had grown bushy down his chin, and I could see his eyes sinking into their sockets. There was a half-bottle of vodka, two boxes of tablets, and a butcher’s knife next to him. I glanced through the window; it looked empty. There was a brown stain on the wall where the TV used to be mounted, a box of matches on the table, and a ten-inch mattress on the kitchen floor, with cigarette butts spilling out of the jug next to it. This was not Marghie’s haven.

A harsh bovine cough came from inside the house. I dropped the pots in surprise, and the chicken curry spilled on the ground, splashing on the rocking chair. Roger shot up in rage, grabbing the knife with both hands. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Did you come to gloat like everyone else? Did those bank-robbing hospital people send you?”

I froze in shock. The knife was a few inches shy of my belly. This was it. Twenty-five years done. I had imagined my end to be more glorious, with everyone I loved surrounding me with teary eyes, begging me to stay.

 He asked again, “Who are you?” “Roger, it’s me, Julian,” he frowned with a surprised look, then I remembered.

 “Missy.”

I could feel the blade on my linen shirt, one more push…

My eyes locked shut, my heart taking a sprinting lead before my body would soon fall to the ground any minute now.

“I am so sorry, pretty missy. I am so sorry,” he dropped the knife and held onto the rocking chair to catch his breath. I caught him before he slid on the slippery floor with curry.

“Where have you been? Marghie’s been asking about you. Even when she is down like this, she asks me to find you.”

I didn’t answer; I simply apologized.

Another bovine cough resounded from the house. “Hear that,” he began, “That is all my fault. Been smoking all my days, her lungs been eaten up by this cancer thing, they told us it’s even running through her whole body like a loose bomb.”

My feet wobbled. I needed to sit down. So I said the first thing on my mind, “I am so sorry, Roger. It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is!” he bellowed. “Didn’t you pass by the market today? They be gathered in groups, talking about me being the death of Marghie. I sold them my furniture, my car, my watches, and they gave me change. Those hospital people said it was not enough for her drugs. So now, they want to bring people, strangers from the hospital over to take care of her. I will not let them. Do you hear me? I won’t,” his voice was trembling. I nodded.

He pressed on, “I am gonna be sitting here and smoke the damn cancer to my lungs. If my Marghie is going, I am going with her, one way or another.”

I had never seen him or anyone like this before. My young mind told me it was not time to broach my grandmother’s topic. He was a man, defeated despite all his efforts, the pain burning his lungs far worse than any number of cigarettes he took, how many beers he drank.

“Roger, I don’t understand what you are going through. Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” the defeat in his voice was heart-breaking. “Go back home, Missy. Your granny may be worried by now.”

He steadied himself from my hold, walked back, and dropped down on the staircase. He gazed at the hill, some trees at a distance swayed by the wind. He watched them move.

I wanted to run back to my grandmother’s house. This was my one pass. There was nothing else I could do.

My feet went heavy. I trembled but found myself walking over to the staircase and sat quietly next to him. Maybe what he needed was for me to actually not do anything.

We watched the trees, barely blinking at the sight of nature. After a long time of uncertainty, he said, “Will you help me take her chair inside?”

“Of course, I will.”

We sat there for a long time, listening to Marghie break into forceful bouts of cough, drowning our silence. The sound would be etched into our minds even after she left.