Page 58 of Becoming Mila
A voice from the kitchen breaks into my thoughts. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t even hear Sheri arrive home, but here she is right in front of us, reaching for Popeye to untangle him from me. Her expression is one of exasperation and something like fear.
“He wanted to dance,” I say. I stand back, confused. Have I done something wrong? Why can’t we have an easy little dance?
“Oh, Sheri, c’mon!” Popeye protests as he swats her hands away. “You act like that ol’ Grim Reaper is going to come knocking any day! Stop coddling me.”
Sheri shepherds him back to the couch, though Popeye moves reluctantly while tutting in disagreement. “I just don’t want you losing your balance again, Dad,” she says, her tone worried.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur from the sideline, twisting my fingers over and over again, unsure of what exactly is going on.
Popeye losing balance? Again?
“Don’t apologize, Mila,” Popeye says just as the needle lifts up off the end of the vinyl. “Thank you. You always were a sweet girl when it came to dancing.”
I am really, really lost. My brows knit together as my gaze flickers back and forth between Popeye and Sheri, trying to read their unfamiliar expressions. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Mila,” says Sheri at the exact same time as Popeye says, “Let me tell you something, Mila.”
Sheri parts her lips in protest and shakes her head fast. “Dad!”
“She’ll figure it out eventually. Things aren’t getting any better.”
“What isn’t getting any better?” I urge.
Popeye moves his stern gaze from Sheri to me. He forces a smile and his cheeks crease with deep wrinkles. “Sweet Mila, sit down,” he says.
Sheri rubs at her temples as I sit down on the couch next to Popeye. I can’t get comfortable – I sit on the very edge, my knees knocking together. I think I know what Popeye is about to say, but I don’t want to believe it yet. I can’t handle any more secrets.
“I am so glad that you’re here,” he says, reaching out for my hand, “because I’m slowing down.”
“You’re notthatslow, Popeye,” I say, looking at him askance. Popeye is only in his early seventies. It’s not like he’s a hundred and six.
“Maybe not,” he says with a twitch of a smile, “but we think there’s something wrong with me.”
“How—” I swallow the lump in my throat and blink back the resurgence of tears from earlier, then I jump up and point at him in anger. “What do you mean, there’s something wrong? You’re fine, Popeye. You could have danced with me all afternoon!”
“We don’t know yet, exactly,” he hedges, but as he says this, there’s no denying the fear that flashes in his eye. “We’re running tests. I haven’t been great for a while. Lots of little things. Oh, Mila, don’t look at me like that!”
My heart shatters and the splices cut through me, leaving a burning wound in the middle of my chest. All of a sudden I can only imagine the worst. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, blurring my vision and making Popeye unrecognizable in front of me. I feel Sheri move closer to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. I don’t mean to cry, but the thought of something being wrong with Popeye, the grandfather I haven’t spent nearly enough time with, is too dizzying to bear.
“Does my dad know?” I force out, struggling to keep my breath steady. Dad has never mentionedanythingabout Popeye being ill.
“No,” Sheri answers, squeezing my shoulder harder and guiding me back down onto the couch. She sits next to me and wipes away a tear. “I really do think we should tell him.”
“No!” Popeye fiercely interjects. “Don’t you dare, Sheri. This may be nothing.”
“Dad should know that you aren’t feeling well, Popeye,” I say. “He’d come and visit you.”
Now Popeye turns his angered frustration toward me, a strong tremor in his jaw. “I don’t want him to visit out of sympathy!” he snaps, then shakes his head at Sheri and me. “Both of you stop looking at me like that! Stop! I’m not at death’s door! Nowhere near it, in fact.”
“We’re just worried about you, Dad,” Sheri says.
But Popeye is fed up of the concern, too stubborn to allow any pity for himself. Grumbling unintelligible words in a low voice, he rises from the couch and slinks off through the house, though now that I watch him with intense focus, I realize just how awkward his movements are, signs of the pain in his body.
Sheri collapses back against the couch, her hands pressed to her face, groaning a sigh. “There are a lot of things you don’t know, Mila,” she says quietly, but her voice is both apologetic and full of sympathy. She wraps an arm around me and pulls me in close, and, as she rests her chin on my head and hugs me tight, I sense that I am as much of a comfort to my aunt as she is to me.
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