Give birth as soon as you can, Grandma Mary said, swinging her legs off the bed. Shes 87 now, and shes long forgotten what it feels like, but her son and greatgrandson keep nudging her, sometimes tapping her with a walking stick: If you linger, youll end up with blue stockings and youll be thinking of us, but itll be too late.
Now Marys feeling down, shes stopped getting out of bed, mutters at everyone at home (Why did I raise you lot so you could all sleep till lunch?) and the pots are clanging in the kitchen at half past six. The family starts to worry.
Grandma, asks her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Poppy, why dont you swearing at us any more?
Im ready to go, love, Im ready, Mary sighs, talking about her deadline with a mix of melancholy about the years slipping by and a flicker of hope for something beyond the stew they never learned to make right.
Poppy darts to the waiting relatives in the kitchen.
The groundhog at Marys place died! she reports, giving the latest reconnaissance.
What groundhog? asks the head of the family, also the eldest son, Victor James, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looks like a Black Forest ranger from an old tale, the sort of bloke youd say the wind strolls through.
Probably an old one, Poppy shrugs. Shes never seen the critter anyway.
The elders exchange glances. The next day a composed doctor drops by.
Somethings off with your grandmother, he says, diagnosing.
Obviously, Victor James slaps his thighs, otherwise we wouldnt have called you!
The doctor looks thoughtful, then at Victors wife.
Agerelated, he says plainly. But I dont see any serious issues. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch and dinner! All her life she jabbed me with her nose, saying my hands werent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Victors wife, already a granny herself, says, her voice dropping.
The family council with the doctor decides its a worrying sign. Theyre so exhausted from worrying they collapse into sleep as if theyd tumbled into a deep pit.
In the night Victor wakes to the familiar shuffling of slippers, but this time it isnt the urgent demand to jump up and start breakfast.
Mum? he whispers, stepping into the hallway.
Well a casual reply drifts from the dark.
Whats up? he asks.
Just thinking, while youre all asleep, I might slip off to meet Mike Jacobs, the grandma says, sounding a bit clearer. I need the loo, where else?
Victor flips the kitchen light on, puts the kettle on, and sits down, head in his hands.
Starving? the grandma asks from the corridor, looking at him.
Yeah, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Mary shuffles to the table.
Its been five days Ive been holed up in my room, she begins, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay there waiting, day after day, and then I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, maybe that omen should wander the woods instead of me dying under the sheets. Put the kettle on, make the tea hotter, stronger. We havent really talked for three days, son, lets catch up.
Victor finally collapses onto the couch around half past five in the morning, while Mary stays in the kitchen, determined to rustle up breakfast herselfno one else can feed the kids properly.
