Page 27 of A Breath of Life
Nana’s room was on the second floor. By the time Echo and I arrived, it was a quarter past eight. We had fifteen minutes. It wasn’t long, but when the person you were visiting considered you to be a stranger half the time, by no fault of their own, fifteen minutes could feel like an age.
Nana sat in her rocker, peering out the window at the night beyond. Her reflection in the glass stared back at me, and I doubted she could see much of anything but her own face. She clutched a skein of yarn and knitting needles in her bony hands. Nana had lost the ability to knit but often wound the wool around the needles or tangled it between her fingers. Her poor, broken mind didn’t know the difference. She unraveled stitches like a champ, but the act of creating garmentswas a skill she no longer possessed. It broke my heart. Knitting was something I associated with Nana. Growing up, I remembered her always making something or other. Sweaters, blankets, scarves, socks.
Hearing me enter, she turned and peered unknowingly from behind smudged glasses. “Leroy? Is that you?”
I gritted my teeth. “No. It’s Diem, Nana.” I would have preferred she had mistaken me for Grandfather Boone than my father, but such was the disease. Lately, I could be anyone.
Echo remained obediently by my side when I pulled up a chair and sat next to the rocker. Nana glanced at the pup with querying scrutiny but offered no greeting and asked no questions.
“I had a dog once. He was black and gray with floppy ears. That’s not him.”
“I didn’t know you had a dog.” It was possible. I had no idea. It could have been a figment of her imagination, conjured by nothing more than Echo’s presence.
“He used to chase the squirrels in the yard.”
I smiled. “What was his name?”
“Oh, Diana, I think. She’s a lovely girl. You should meet her.”
“I’d love to.” I relieved Nana of the yarn and knitting needles, and she frowned. “Do you want some help with this? It looks awfully tangled.”
“I think I slipped a stitch.”
“Could be. Let me see what I can do.”
“Do you knit?”
“Yes. You taught me, remember?”
Her expression said no, she did not remember.
“What are you making?” I asked instead.
“A sweater for my new grandson. He was born on the weekend. Beefy boy. Over ten pounds, they tell me.” Studying my face, sheadded, “Come on, Leroy. Don’t play with your mother. How’s the baby doing?”
A lump formed in my throat. “Good. He’s… doing okay.” For a brief moment, I wondered if my dad had loved me as an infant or if his disdain was immediate. Then I pushed the thought away because traveling down that road wasn’t healthy.
Nana bobbed her head and returned her focus to the window and her reflection. Shetsked. “I told the man I didn’t want to say my prayers.”
“Oh? What man?”
“He should bless the baby and move on.”
I was never baptized, so I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but I let her ramble.
Once I’d wound the yarn into a tight ball, Nana was quiet. I contemplated what to say. She didn’t contribute much to the conversation, and I had a distinct impression this was how Tallus sometimes felt when I spent too much time grunting and not communicating. No wonder he grew frustrated. One-sided chats sucked.
For something to do, I cast on a handful of stitches and worked a few rows of stockinette. Nana noticed the movement and turned from the window, studying the click of the needles and weaving of yarn.
My dad’s voice sounded in the background, shouting from the distant past,Why’re you teaching my son a woman’s craft? You’ll make him a pussy. Put that fucking shit down, boy. You want to be a faggot?
I shut the voice down and refocused on my hands and the intricate craft I’d learned a lifetime ago.
“Are you the new nurse I met?” Nana asked. “I can’t remember.”
“No, Nana. I’m Diem. Your grandson.”
She studied my face. The vacancy behind her eyes nearly broke my heart. She was gone, never to return, and I didn’t know how I wouldlive without her. Time slipped away so fast, and I feared what her death might do to me. How would I cope? What would I do?
