Breathe

I shifted in the aged wooden chair that was pulled up to our kitchen table. It creaked underneath me while I put as much weight as I could onto the cookie cutter surrounded by dough. My sister, who sat across the table from me, got up and took a break from our annual tradition of cookie making the day of Christmas Eve. Small white snowflakes whisped through the air outside and the gloomy atmosphere made for perfect Christmas baking weather. I delicately peeled a man shaped dough piece off the floured table and gently placed it on a metal sheet. The delicate process of transferring dough took all my concentration, as I made sure to keep in tact all of the man’s parts. Feet first, then torso and arms came second. I just about finished laying him down when the phone rang. Startled, my hand shook, ripping the cookie man’s head off. The padding of my moms feet became more and more audible the closer she walked. My back facing her, I heard the hastiness in her footsteps as she slid the last few feet to the phone.

“Hello?” She paused. “Alright, I’ll tell the girls.” She placed the phone back in the cradle. “Heather get ready. We have to go now.”

****

Each Friday afternoon, I would stand behind the glass door, my head barely touching the handle. I squished my hands against the glass as I tried to balance on my tip toes. Any second and I would see my dad’s bright red truck roll into the driveway. Within seconds, I was down the paved pathway and at the door, excited to climb in.

“Ready to go to Grammee’s house?” My dad would ask after he buckled me into my car seat and started the engine. I would reply by kicking the back of his seat, eager to see Grammee again.

Within 30 minutes, we arrived at Grammee’s house and I was taken inside while the faint sound of a lawn mower began to rattle the windows. Grammee’s boney, translucent like hand grabbed ahold of mine and we walked into the kitchen together. A waft of her perfume breezed past me as her pale blue blouse floated around her. As we neared the kitchen, she dragged out the high chair and plopped me in it. Grammee then reached up into the highest cabinet and pulled out an array of cookies, letting me choose which ones I wanted. My little chubby hands grabbed at every single variation, beyond excited at all the attention I was receiving. Grammee strolled to the fridge, poured a glass of milk and read books to me. We sat there in the kitchen, reading books as crumbs fell out of our mouths until my dad came in.

“Alright Heather, it’s time for us to go home now.” He would pat my head as he stole a cookie from my stash. Tears would rush to my eyes. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay with Grammee forever. “It’s ok, you’ll see her next week, I promise.” He picked me up by the armpits and placed me on the ground. I ran to Grammee’s legs and held on for my dear life.

It was only a few years later that she moved in with my family. She had her own bedroom, livingroom, and bathroom and the best part was she never had to leave. She was our babysitter, tutor, but most of all, our mom when mom wasn’t home. If we climbed onto the couch and jumped on it, she would scold us, as she liked to say it. I spent most of my nights in her living room watching the Lawrence Welk show or doing homework as she helped. But it was then, when Grammee started living with us, that we noticed little things. She started to shuffle her feet whenever she walked somewhere instead of picking up each foot. She would sit at the dinner table and talk while her fingers would be constantly moving, like she was rolling pills. On a few occasions, my dad would come back from an appointment during the day to find her laying on the ground because she fell and couldn’t get back up. Then one day, my sister Krista, and I were sitting in our living room, watching cartoons when my dad sat down next to us. He told us she had Parkinsons, that she was getting medication to help her out and keep her motor skills as good as possible for as long as possible but that Parkinson’s would eventually paralyze her. I nodded, not letting the information soak in. "Gramme will be alright." I told myself.

****

I intently stared at my mom’s hands as she turned the steering wheel of the car. Shadows drifted along the the hood and the sun barely peeked through the clouds. We rolled down a small hill before slowing down. The left blinker clicked, echoing throughout the interior of the car. Easing into a building's entrance, the blinker snapped up and our car pulled into a small parking lot in front of said building. Five stories tall and tinted a rose color, Linden Grove surrounded us in a U shape. Underneath the brick pavilion, four older people rested, bundled up in blankets with their respective nurses holding onto the back of each wheelchair. None of them moved. They just stared. Through the floor to ceiling windows, the resident cat I had made friends with earlier rubbed its back up against the window ledge, arching its spine. I loved that cat.

“Alright girls,” My mom sighed. “Lets go.” She pulled the keys out of the car and the engine crackled, cooling down. I opened the door and a gust of wind smacked me in the face. My eyes watered. Stretching my legs out, I stepped out and slammed the door.

****

After Grammee had been living with us for eight years, my dad pulled Krista and I into the living room.

“Could I talk to the both of you in a few minutes?” Krista and I looked at each other. Me being in middle school and Krista still in elementary school, I was convinced that we had done something wrong. As I sat on the arm of our tan suede couch, the first thing I noticed was the light manilla folder tucked under my dad’s arm. I gave my sister a “what is that, do you know what it is?” look. He sat on the carpet in front of us and opened the folder, scanning the contents before opening his mouth. I started to sweat.

“So, as you both probably know, Grammee hasn’t been doing too well lately.”

I wrung my hands together until they turned red. It had only gotten worse recently. She could only walk with a walker on good days. On the bad days she could only move with a wheel chair. She couldn’t write anymore either because she had little control of her hands. I glanced up at my dad. His balding head became bright red and his face followed. He stared at the folder, silent. He quickly shifted his line of sight towards us then back down, his eyes bloodshot. He took in a deep breath then shook as he let it back out.

“I, um…” He scratched his head. “Well, we’re going to have to…” A quick sob stopped him mid sentence. I stared at my knees afraid to look up and make eye contact. The second I did, I knew I would start crying.

“I’m... so sorry.” My dad almost inaudibly whispered. Krista and I gravitated towards him and put our arms around his shoulders and he hung his head, wiping tears from his cheeks. He sniffled.

****

The automated doors opened seconds before we would have run into them and the warm air hugged our shivering bodies. We waved at the residents and asked how they were doing. The familiar smell of elderly people wafted to my nose and I took a sharp left, following the cream and green wallpapered walls that I had taken hundreds of times before. We neared her slightly open door marked Beverly. Knocking gently, I heard my Dad’s low voice.

“You guys can come in.”

All three of us slowly tip toed into the room, as if afraid that the loudness of our feet would disrupt Grammee. My Dad was sitting next to her bed, knees touching the mattress. He held her purpled, boney hand, gently rubbing it with his thumb. I couldn’t help but to see him as a child, helpless and unable to do anything to save his dying Mom. So he held her hand. I stood next to him. Grammee lay flat in her bed. Her mouth was slightly ajar and her chin tilted up. Her white hair was matted against the top of her head and her eyes only opened half way. I could still see her gray blue eyes, but the whiteness turned a tint of yellow. Both arms lay right next to her side, left where the nurse had placed them. A noise came from her mouth. It wasn’t exactly a rattle but more of a popping noise, like she had a lot of mucus in her throat but didn’t clear it out. It popped to the rhythm of her breathing.

“Alright, now that you guys are here, why don’t you talk to her. I have to go out and talk to the nurse.” He stood up and stepped out into the hall, closing the door until it almost shut.

“It’s called a death rattle.” Another nurse said in a soft tone. “It doesn’t bother her, it just sounds kind of bad.” There was a pause. “Usually it’s an indication that she won’t have that much longer. Maybe another day at the most.”

I moved to the chair at the end of her bed, staring at her throat. I imagined bubbles and foam popping out of her mouth that coincide with the rattle. I couldn’t stand to listen anymore. I was ashamed that the noise disgusted me because I knew she couldn’t help it. Both my Mom and I left to get the pastor from our Church just a few minutes away.

“He will come soon. He just has to get some things then he will be right over.” My mom mumbled as we got back in the car. She started the engine then pulled out. We made a left turn then a right and slowed down to a halt. Something inside me skipped then sank.

“No, no. Heather you’re just messing with yourself. She’ll be there when you get back. Your head is just being stupid.” I thought to myself. “Shit like that doesn’t happen.”

We continued down the road and pulled into Linden Grove two minutes later. Hastily trudging to the automatic glass doors, my mom and I sped through the cream and green dimly lit hallways to Grammees room. Poking my head in, I saw my Dad’s head resting on his mothers hand. The room was quiet. I shoved open the door and slowly walked to his side. Grammee's eyes looked fogged and permanently opened. Her mouth was slightly ajar as she sat still. The only light on in the room, above her head, casted shadows over the rest of her body. I looked at her chest, expecting it to be moving up at down, but it stayed still. I put my hand on hers. It was still warm.

“You just missed her. By a few minutes. She’s gone.”