Grandpa Revised

Ten years ago I was eight. That’s when perception of the world changed. For the first time I started to see things outside of my own individual sphere of existence. Life became more than just grass-stained jeans and the faint odor of sweat after a day of riding bikes with my friends. I suddenly became aware of another world entirely. The foreign world of “grown ups.” This transformation came with the improbable death of my Grandpa Jackson.

I say improbable because, if you knew Grandpa Jackson, you would never think something as common as death would ever scathe him. He was untouchable. His brown wavy hair, square jaw, and steely eyes gave him the appearance of a normal man. But, he was far from it. Viewed through the idealistic eyes of a child, he was more like a superhero. Clark Kent was Superman. Bruce Wayne was Batman, and Jackson Thomas was Grandpa. He seemed to radiate confidence and possessed an easy charm; you couldn’t help see a little John Wayne in him.

So, when he shuffled off the mortal coil, we were all shocked.
It happened in June. I came came down the stairs after I had showered and got ready for school, and I found my mom crying in the kitchen. This was the first time I had ever seen her cry. It was alarming. You have these idealized concepts about your parents when you’re a child. Parents are supposed to be invulnerable to the things that afflict most children. They are never frightened. Sorrow does not trouble them. They are simply there to protect you from those insecurities. Seeing her there, looking confused and scared, made her look like a heartbroken little girl. Something shifted inside of me, and I watched as a small piece of armor fell from my mother’s exterior.

“What’s wrong, mom?” I walked to the table, and sat down nervously.
“It’s your Grandpa,” she sobbed quietly. She didn’t bother qualifying which Grandpa she was talking about, because my Dad’s dad died when he was a kid.
She didn’t continue, so I prodded. “What happened?”
She sniffed. “He died last night at the hospital.”
“How did he die?” I stuttered.

“Something was wrong with his brain. It happened all of a sudden,” she wept.
Later I would find out that he had a brain aneurysm. A blood vessel in his brain swelled up like a balloon and popped. It filled his head with blood, and he died shortly after he got to the hospital.

My mother gathered herself, and tried her best to replace the armor. She wiped away her tears the best she could and said, “You’ve got to get to school. You’re going to be late.”

After being rushed out the door, numbness took over my body. Death had swooped in and rattled my perception of the world. It continued to do so when we drove to Iowa for Grandpa Thomas’ funeral.

At my Grandpa’s wake, I approached his casket and peered inside. It was the first time I’d seen a dead body before. It was my Grandpa in there, but it wasn’t. Death had robbed him of something vital. Gone was his confidence and charm. Gone was the idea that he was something more than human. Seeing his body, unblinking, not breathing, it wasn’t the man I remembered. I realized then, he was gone forever.
My dad led us back to the uncomfortable metal folding chairs that had been placed in aisles at the funeral home. People shuffled in and out, and stood at the front of the room, and peered in the casket looking at the body that used to be my grandpa. At one point during the wake, I looked over at my father, and was shocked. He was staring at the casket, and I noticed a single tear rolling down his cheek. I had never seen my father cry before either, and once again, that familiar feeling settled in to the pit of my stomach.

My parents had known each other since they were little kids. He would often spend time at the Thomas’ house. When his dad died, Grandpa Jackson became like a father to him. With his death, both of my parents lost something.

After the wake, my family and my aunts, uncles, and cousins went to a restaurant called The Sizzler. The wake had been close to three hours, so I was starving. As we grabbed our plates and walked around the buffet, I saw my mother sitting quietly at the table alone. Her head was in her hands, and she was crying quietly to herself. I absentmindedly piled my plate high with an assortment of food. She hadn’t eaten anything since we found out a couple of days ago. She had barely had anything to drink as well.

After grabbing a soda I returned to the table. My dad was talking to her in a hushed voice. He had brought her a salad, but she was refusing to eat it.

“You have to eat something, Amanda.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. This isn’t healthy.”
My mother lifted her head, and met my father’s eyes. “I said I’m not hungry, Roger. Please. Drop. It.”

I shoveled a spoonful of chocolate mousse in my mouth. “Can I go get some more?” I asked, interrupting their confrontation.

My dad kept his eyes locked on my mom. “Go.”

Again, I loaded my plate. Chicken, ham cottage cheese, carrot sticks, salad, chocolate mousse, a whole banana, vanilla soft serve ice cream with sprinkles. My appetite seemed to grow out of sympathy for my mother.

My dad was still at it when I returned to the table. My brother and I exchanged nervous glances, as the rest of the extended family started to take notice of my parents’ conversation.

“You don’t understand, all right?” my mother’s voice rose hysterically. “How could you possibly? He wasn’t your father!”
“He was as much my father as he was yours. I practically grew up in your house with your family.”
“It’s not the same!”

This was the first time I’d seen my parents argue. It went on the ever-expanding list of things I wasn’t aware of. Before the funeral, I would never have imagined my parents getting in to a disagreement. Their marriage, and general attitude towards each other, was above reproach. Maybe it was the overabundance of food in my stomach, but uneasiness began to creep inside of me. I needed to stop them before they said things they didn’t mean.

“Hey Dad?” I interjected.
He turned in his chair and shouted “What!”

Another first. He had never shouted at me before. Well, at least not without merit. I wasn’t the model of perfection and often got scolded for my misbehavior. But, this time I hadn’t technically done anything wrong, and my father realized that almost immediately. Seeing my startled expression, he seemed to deflate him a little. He took a breath and repeated himself, this time in a calmer voice. “What did you need, Nathan?”

“I was just wondering if I could get some more ice cream?”
He smirked, “Yeah, sure. Go ahead, but after that, you’re done. I’m not sure there will be much food left after we leave here if you keep it up.”

When I got back to the table, I noticed my mom half heartedly picking through the garden salad my dad had brought her earlier. Even though the sight of mother acquiescing to my father’s wish restored some of my doubt, the queasiness returned to my stomach. However, this nauseu had nothing to do with with changes happening all around me. It had everything to do the glut of food churning in my stomach. You’ve heard the phrase, “Where your heart on your sleeve?” Well, the polite patrons of The Sizzler and the members of my family did not appreciate me wearing my partially digested food on my sleeves. And pants. And a good portion of the tablecloth.
We left The Sizzler in a hurry, and I pushed my parents’ argument far from my mind.
The following day, after the funeral service at the church, I stood by my father while the preacher said the closing benediction. Choreographed gun blasts echoed through the stifling air.

“Dad, why are those men shooting guns?” Sweat poured from my armpits, as the uniformed men discharged the shells and reloaded.
“It’s called a twenty-one gun salute.”
“Why are they doing that?”
“Because your Grandpa was in the Korean War.”
“Right, but—”
“Shh,” he quieted me.
I gave a furtive look at my mother. Her eyes were red. She was holding a handkerchief to her mouth to quiet her continual sobbing.
Concluding the blasts, family members scurried forward to retrieve the spent shells. Lilies from atop the casket were dispersed as mementos. Small trinkets to consolidate memory.

I clutched a shell in my pocket. My finger traced the barrel of the bullet. The casket had been stripped of all of its flowers. It looked uncomfortably naked. I walked forward apprehensively clutching a lily in my hand. Slowly, I extended my hand and placed the flower on top of it. It felt like everyone was watching me, but when I turned around, no one was. With tear stained faced, and the occasional weak smile and laugh, most shuffled back to their car, oblivious to me.

I walked back to the minivan with my family, and soon, we were headed back to Minnesota. From the backseat, I thought about a lot on the way home. What was happening to the adults around me? Was I simply unaware of their humanity? Their normality. Did my mother and father share the same emotions that I experience on a day-to-day basis? Where they just like me? Were they just grown up versions of myself who happened to have children?

One thing I knew for certain. No one was safe now. We could all break.