Because my first day with Billy Bob was cut short, I asked him if he wanted to see me Tuesday morning before I had to catch the Peoria Coach to Chicago for my flight home. I picked him up from the nursing home and we went for a drive.
How much time you got?
I have a bit of time. How much you got?
I got all day.
We settled on an hour. He directed me on a drive west of town and we passed the Oakley Inn where I found him drunk the first day.
Oh, they’re open. Do you drink? No, you don’t drink.
I hoped he wasn’t hinting at anything, because I wasn’t spending the last moments of this trip reliving day 1.
Not at 8:30 in the morning, Grandpa. I have to hold down a job.
He didn’t seem to hear me. Which is just as well.
No, you don’t drink.
We passed the cemetery where my grandmother was buried and when we reached the main road, he said:
Well, I guess you should take me back now. I don’t want you to be late.
I looked at the clock, ensuring I didn’t experience an unexplained loss of time.
Grandpa, it’s been 10 minutes. We have plenty of time!
He was always anxious about time. I was surprised he didn’t cling to the moments- stealing as many as possible like I would have. He spent his days sitting and staring at nothing- or he used to before moving to the nursing home. Now, I wasn’t sure what he did all day. If anyone paid attention to him. If he had any joy at all. If it were the other way around, I’d take the long routes and prey on his ignorance of Streator geography.
We have plenty of time.
He repeated. Then he fell completely silent and didn’t hear me when I asked him where to go. So, I stayed on Main Street and headed east toward Dwight. I’m certain he’d rather see Marilla Park or Starved Rock, but I didn’t know how to get there. Instead, I slowly approached stop signs, looked at him expectantly and asked him where to. But, he never answered.
The houses grew more sparse and acres and acres of frozen-muddy earth raced by. After 10 minutes, Grandpa snapped out of his trance.
You gonna turn around?
If this doesn’t go anywhere, I will. We still have some time.
A few minutes later we approached an intersection. Illinois 18.
Where does this go?
I don’t know where it goes.
He heard me. It always surprised me when he heard me, particularly when I wasn’t raising my voice. I turned and drove down the 18 and after 10 minutes, I could feel him getting anxious. He was still concerned about getting me to my grandparents’ on time. I couldn’t explain that it was flexible- that I padded it a bit just in case, rather than calculating it to spend every second I could with him.
After another 5 minutes, I was growing anxious. Should I turn around? Go straight? Where the hell was I? Luckily, Central Illinois is a grid of state highways. In the summer, you would see corn for miles and miles, then an intersection, then soybeans, and finally a small town. It seemed to continue forever in all directions. We approached another intersection and a sign directed us back to the 23. I could sense Grandpa’s relief as we headed back and we even arrived at his nursing home on time.
Grandpa started scrambling to open the door. I rushed to help him inside and he immediately sat in a wheel chair. Then he looked down at the floor, his face hiding under the bill of his orange Illini baseball cap. He was silent for a few moments.
I wish we lived closer.
I know, Grandpa.
I leaned down and hugged him.
I love you.
I love you too.
Then he wheeled away, pushing the walker in front of him.
3 Comments
December 15, 2008 at 4:56 pm
I adore this. I’m so glad you’ve shared all of it. Thank you.
December 15, 2008 at 6:03 pm
Thanks, MG!
I didn’t even touch on my paternal grandparents. They’re pretty good actually- independent and relatively healthy. I stayed with them and used their van. I don’t think I could have taken another day of nagging from my grandmother though. There is no question- she is the matriarch of the family!
January 6, 2009 at 1:24 pm
oh wow. that leaves off on a teary note. Thanks for sharing it all.