Page 8 of Last Breath

Sugar beets.

Always beets.

“Red beets, blue beets, every kind of beet beets...Old MacDonald had a farm, eieio."

Yep, I’m crazy. I’m humming a song about beets and Old MacDonald.

If a shrink wanted to pull me apart, oh, the treasures they would find.

Popping the screen door open, Gran cries out, “Sweetie?” from the front of the house. All over again, the silence is broken and sweetie is in the air. Great.

Never a moment’s peace.

“It’s me, Gran. Listen to your music,” I say as nicely as I can before she pipes up with another shrill ‘sweetie.’

Noticing that her music’s stopped, I cuss.

“Shit. Hang on, Gran.” Placing the basket on the counter, I rub my hands under water to remove the blood and dirt from my nails. I’ve learned that touching the records with dirty hands only asks for problems in the future. Walking in and tapping her on the shoulder, I feel the frail bones beneath.

Making my way to the record player, I say, “Sorry, Gran, I’ll get your music going again.”

“Who are you?” she asks.

I used to take offense with her memory issues, but no more. Now I get on with what she needs and smile as best I can. “It’s me, Gran. Joy.”

“Oh, sweetie, why don’t you cut your hair?”

Selecting one of her favorite crooners, I put the last vinyl away as she continues. “You really should, you know. Boys don’t like whores.” Marjory’s voice is deadpan and uncaring. She doesn’t mean it to hurt my feelings, she just lacks empathy. Her brain doesn’t see things the same anymore.

“You should cover up too. You’re asking to be raped.”

Yep, keep it coming universe. Laugh it up.

“Thanks, Gran. I’ll put on a sweater.” On the hottestday of the week, I think to myself.

Placing the needle on the record, she visibly relaxes as the song starts once more.

“Dinner will be soon, Gran. I’m making your favorite.”

“It better be beets. We haven’t had them in ages. That last meal you cooked was awful. No more chicken, young lady.”

“Okay, Gran. No more chicken. You just relax and listen to your music while I cook.” As the music rises and falls in a tempo she remembers, her head bobs to the tune slowly. I can leave now as she falls back into her stupor of yesteryear.

Walking back toward the kitchen, I swear I hear a faint knock at the front door. Pausing in the hallway to listen, again the person raps. No one comes to that door.

No one comes here period.

No one.

Not our neighbors, not friends—that is if we had any. We’ve been forgotten for a long while.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah, Gran, I got it.”

Once more, the person knocks. “Yeah!” I yell out. “I’m coming!”

We’re in nowhere USA. We’re not a destination station, we don’t have guests, and that door isn’t easily seen through the overgrown shrubbery. They had to work to reach the door.

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