Burnt Toast

“Darling, I think you’re burning the toast.”

“Grandma, I haven’t even put it in yet! I’m still making the coffee.”

I’m making breakfast at my grandmother’s house. All us grandkids are supposed to rotate each weekend to come visit and look after her for a bit, to give Mum a break. Lately though it seems like my three brothers all have something better to do, so I’ve been picking up the extra slack. Not that I mind! She’s alright, as far as grandmas go. She can be a bit fussy at times though.

“Oh but it smells awful, turn the setting down! And remember to pop it manually, the silly old thing is broken. It’ll sit in there burning all day unless you pop it up yourself!”

I roll my eyes.

“The toast isn’t in yet Grandma. Here’s your coffee. I’m putting it in now.”

I go over to the little kitchen table where she is sitting and hand her the coffee and a newspaper. Hopefully that will keep her occupied for a little while. I can’t stand when people hover and fuss while I’m working in the kitchen.

I pop two slices of frozen Wonder White in the toaster with a sigh. I should be nursing this hangover in bed on a Sunday morning at 8am, like any other normal 20 year old, not playing house maid to a nervous old biddy. I feel a hot wave of resentment towards my brother Joe for calling me late last night with the excuse that he had ‘met a girl’ and just HAD to attend a wedding with her in the countryside today. Lucky if he’d known her five minutes I bet.

“Lucy...Lucy..!”

I’m rifling through the pantry. Where is that Vegemite? “Yes, Grandma?”

“Oh the smell. It’s quite awful, won’t you do something about it? I feel sick! I feel oh... oh dear.. oh my..”

Her voice falters. I look up from the cupboard, and see her quivering in the chair. She’s gone quite grey.

“Grandma? Are you alright? Gran?”

I go over to where she’s sitting, and realise with horror that the entire right side of her face is drooping. She’s an ashen, sickly colour, and her breathing is rapidly becoming ragged.

“Grandma!”

I grab her hand, a clammy dead weight in my own, and drop it back in her lap with panic as I realise what’s happening. Burnt toast! Of course. It’s written on the emergency medical conditions leaflet stuck to the refrigerator. One of the first signs of a stroke.

“Lucyyyy... I don’t feel so.. gibwe ugh.. gugh gu..” Her voice trails off into gibberish and she starts to droop in her chair.

I grab my phone from my back pocket - thank goodness I charged it last night.

“Hang on Grandma! It’s ok, I’m calling an ambulance now!”

My fingers shake and I fight back panicked tears as I dial triple 0.

...

We’re in the hospital. The boys didn’t answer my calls of course, but finally after several hours and as many frantic text messages from Mum, they’ve all managed to roll out of bed and shuffle in. First Greg, then Barry, then finally Joe, several hours later.

The prognosis isn’t good. A massive blood clot on the left side of Grandma’s brain, the doctors say. Mum’s devastated.

Finally, they let us in to see her in intensive care. She’s stable but not expected to recover. This will probably be goodbye.

Mum cries as she holds Grandma’s blue, veiny hand. Us kids stand by the bed, useless and forlorn.

Grandma is wheezing and croaking. It seems like she’s trying to say something to Mum, but it’s hard to tell with her eyes pointing in two different directions.

Mum leans in. “What is it, Mama?” She asks.

Grandma gurgles in response. She sighs, attempts to lean over, and tries again. I push a pillow up behind her back to help her.

“Ch.. ch.. che..”

She falters, the left side of her face grimacing with effort.

“Yes Mama, what? What is it?” Mum asks desperately.

“Ch.. che.. check!”

“Check?” Repeats Mum, confused.

“Check. Tw.. tw.. twenny.”

Mum looks bewildered. It’s so upsetting to see the effort Grandma is making to speak, only to have it all come out as nonsense.

“Check twenny. I don’t understand Mama.” Mum’s voice cracks. She’s seconds away from collapsing into sobs, I can tell.

Grandma makes another heroic effort.

“Check.”

Pause. Deep breath.

“Twenny.”

Pause. Two deep breaths, coming out in a wheeze now.

“G.. g.. g... grand”.

Grandma collapses back in a heap, and closes her eyes, exhausted.

My dopey younger brother Greg squints. “Check twenny grand.” He repeats dumbly. “What does that mean?”

We all look at each other, nonplussed. Mum is repeating to herself, her voice barely a whisper.

“Check twenny. Check twenny?” Her eyes widen with sudden shocked revelation. “Her cheque book! Cheque twenty grand! She must have written out a cheque!”

We’re all familiar with Grandma’s little black cheque book. It’s been a staple throughout all our lives. Every birthday and Christmas she’d give us cheques for $5 or $10 written out in her dainty, old fashioned hand writing. She kept it in a drawer by her bedside and loved getting it out to wave around in our faces when she wanted to bribe us into good behaviour.

But twenty grand? That was a lot. Grandma writing out such a large sum was unheard of.

“Twenty grand, huh?” Joe’s voice. There’s something about the tone of it I don’t like. I turn around to see him slowly edging backwards towards the door.

“Yeah. Twenty thousand big ones. That must be her entire life savings.” Barry this time. I can see him start to slowly creep towards the door as well.

Greg looks from Joe to Barry, confused. “Hey where are you guys..?” He trails off, understanding dawning on his face. “Oh!” He looks back at Mum, then to Grandma, prostrate and lifeless on the bed.

“See ya!” He bolts toward the corridor outside.

“Oh no you don’t!” Roars Barry. There’s a brief tussle as both of them try to ram themselves through the door at the same time. Greg trips and falls over his own feet, and Joe takes the opportunity to leap clean over him and go sprinting down the hall.

“You bastards!” I screech. “I’ve looked after her more weekends than all of you combined!”

And suddenly I’m running as well, as fast as my legs can carry me, following my three brothers out of the hospital building and towards the car park.

...

Not ten minutes later, the four of us pull up at Grandma’s place. I’m seething. Bloody Barry even had the nerve to try and sideswipe me as we all came speeding into her street!

But there’s something wrong.

It’s pandemonium. There’s lights and sirens everywhere, the ear piercing sound of a fire truck wailing. The neighbours are all out on the street, gawking behind a line of police barricades. I smell it before I can see it.

Grandma’s house has been completely burned to the ground.

There’s not even a single wall left. Just the bare bones of a black wooden frame in the middle of a gigantic pile of ash.

My mouth goes dry as I miserably contemplate the little black book with a fresh cheque for twenty thousand dollars, sitting in a drawer in Grandma’s bedside table. Her bedside table which has now apparently been incinerated along with the rest of the house.

The four of us stand there glumly in the street, surveying the scene.

I clear my throat.

“Um.. I may have forgot to pop the toast out of the toaster. I... I burnt the toast.”