Page 7 of Last Breath

Poking my head around the wall from the laundry room, I finally answer her. “I’m just cleaning, Gran. I’ll be out in a bit.”

Checking the clothing to make sure the stains are loose enough that the washer should do its job, I curse that she loves beets. If we had money, I’d buy her new clothes that would hide the stains. But we don’t.

“Awful child,” is her curt reply. Some days she cusses me out, sometimes she calls me by the wrong name, but I accept it because of her dementia. She's disoriented. I can't fault her.

I know she loves me, I know she cares. Years ago, her faculties left her inept to the understanding that we don’t pee our pants, we don’t spit food out at our granddaughter, and we sure as hell don’t curse out the person who’s helping. But she does it all.

Bobbing my head to my internal tune, I absently hum. It's not playing aloud, but in my head, it plays on a constant loop. It’s what gives me a semblance of normalcy. At least that’s what I tell myself. Humming it and scrubbing her piss stained clothes, I toss them in the washer. Adding soap and softener, I flick it to the only setting that works. Hearing the water whoosh in, I move on to the next task in my daily incarcerated routine.

Dancing on the balls of my feet, I make the creaky floorboards crackle in time. Grabbing a small basket off the counter, I start to the back of the house, off to the garden for our evening meal.

“Gran, I’m just going out to the garden,” I yell into the house as I pull the screen door behind me. I know she won’t respond, but off I go.

We don’t have much money, and the garden is what sustains us. I don’t eat breakfast often, and lunch is nearly nonexistent, so dinner is the only time I make sure we have a substantial meal. The worst part, the one and only staple will be beets—that’s a given.

Today, though, Iwantsomething else. Looking down at my hands, my fingers are permanently stained a purplish red, even after scrubbing clothes in bleach. How sexy is that? Not very. But it’s not like I’m out in public. This is all I do, I look after Gran.

I swear, routine is the curse of the devil. Everything, down to the moments I go to sleep, are timed. The regimented order in which I do things keeps her meds and my life in check. If I don’t do it in exactly the same order, things fall to shit, and I forget something important, like eating.

When and if I’meverable to leave this house, I’ll never have routine again. I’ll be spontaneous and quirky. A butterfly on the wind. I’ll break free.

Walking out into the middle of the weed-ridden yard, the chicken wire garden awaits me. It was the best I could do without tools, and I needed to contain the cheapest sustenance we own. Mrs. Jep, the sweet lady two farms over, gave me a box full of seeds last year. I never thought I’d be so thankful for something so simple.

Pulling the rickety gate back and unlatching the chain that holds it in place, I step inside our sanctuary.

“Fucking rabbits!”

Looking at the damage to the carrot tops and lettuce edges closest to the fence, I’m seething mad. I’ve done everything I can to feed us—and that means killing the rabbits.

Walking to the dark edge by the corn, looking down, one of my makeshift snares has caught an interloper. It’s still alive.

Seeing the little thing squirm and wiggle to free itself as I stare it down, the first few times I felt awful. They’re doing what they can to survive—then I remembered they’re eatingmyfood, taking from our mouths—leaving us to starve. That’s when my outlook adjusted.

“I hope you know now how bad it is to steal.” Walking back out of the garden, traipsing through weeds, the little brown body wrestles harder, fearful of my movements.

Bending down, petting the soft downy fur of the little body, I coo, “Hush now. I’ll make it all go away.” Gripping its neck, I snap it quickly.

Years ago, you couldn’t find me smooshing a bug, never mind killing a bunny. I was a prissy girl—the consummate perfectionist that a high school queen portrayed. Perfect hair, makeup done with the skills of an artist, and I smelled of rosehips. Now I smell like the diapers of my Gran, my makeup is dirt, and the hair once quaffed for a runway, is tied in a newspaper elastic I stole.

Releasing the bunny’s foot, I lift the limp corpse and stroke its fur. Humming a song that soothes me, I smooth away the blood that coats his sweet soul. Lifting it, I stroke the red liquid between my fingertips. The blood calls to me in a way.

It sings.

More than it should. It frightens me sometimes. There’s a darkness I can’t deny, and that’s why we don’t eat meat often.

I feel that I’ve lost my innocence.

Staring at the small body, his innocence is gone after taking what’s mine.

Slinging the corpse along the edge of my basket, I go back about my business.

Picking a pea off the vine, I gather the veggies we’ll need for tonight’s dinner—nothing more than we need. Wandering back inside with a sweet pea hanging from my teeth and the bunny’s body bouncing, I smile at the prospect of meat. Dragging the pea between my lips, I relish the slight sweetness, the tart of age and the tang of youth almost gone. I moan as I bite it slowly.

“Yep, last one I’m getting this year,” I mumble, opening the door. Marjory’s memory may be gone, but when she asks what’s for dinner, the only time she doesn’t fuss is when I say beets.

That means there’s always beets. Damn fucking beets!

Red beets.

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