Grandad

It never got easier. In fact, every visit got worse than the last. That was the disease. It respected nothing, and it took everything that made a person who they had been. Every time Joseph pulled out of that parking lot to head home; he knew that it meant one day closer to the end.

Elmhurst wasn’t all that bad of a place. In fact, as nursing homes went, it was pretty damn nice. It had a great cafeteria with fresh flowers on every table. It had gardens, flat-screen televisions, and live music every Thursday afternoon. A few weeks back, they had a Frank Sinatra impersonator. Grandad seemed to enjoy that, even if he couldn’t say it.

Every time he went to leave, it would start. “Take me home. I want to go home. I need my money!” His grandfather’s cries hit Joseph like a cannonball to the stomach. This was the man who had raised him. The man who had been there after his parents died, who had given him hope and purpose in a world where it no longer existed. How many times had Grandad held him in his arms as he cried out for his mother, as he wailed and sobbed so hard that his eyes swelled up like a fighter at the end of a long, brutal round? How many times had Grandad counted out coins and stacked them into those little, brown paper rolls so that he could afford to buy Joseph shoes for school? How many ballgames did he take Joseph to, even when it meant sacrificing his only day off? These were the memories that haunted Joseph. Wonderful, amazing memories that now seemed to be more painful than anything. He longed to go back to the way it was, to the days when it was just the two of them taking their walks along the railroad tracks and listening to the radio on the porch. But those days were gone, and soon, his beloved grandfather would be as well.

Grandad had been a steelworker. He worked in the welded tube plant for thirty-eight years, finally retiring when Joseph was a senior in high school. It was hard, dangerous work, but as grandad always reminded Joseph, important work. “The steel we make builds America!”, he would proudly say whenever Joseph questioned the ultimate goal of a menial labor job. It never made sense to Joseph, but I guess generations are like that. What’s important to one means nothing to the next, and vice versa. Their relationship was always able to transcend that generational gap, though. As Joseph got older, they got closer. Grandad wasn’t just his parent; he was also Joseph’s best friend. Losing him was inevitable - everyone dies, of course. But to lose him like this was just too much to bear. Alzheimer’s Disease was a curse. Why couldn’t he just die peacefully? Why couldn’t he die with his dignity? Thinking about it made Joseph want to burn the world to the ground. This disease was taking everything that had defined a great man. It was leaving behind nothing but an empty shell.

“Take me home! I need to go home! I need my money!”, he yelled as Joseph put on his jacket. “Grandad, you are home”, Joseph told him as he gently patted Grandad’s hand. “And your money is right there.” Joseph pointed to an old wallet sitting on the nightstand. There wasn’t any money in it, of course. Grandad’s entire life savings had gone towards making sure Joseph had a good life. The little money he had left was being spent to keep him in this place.

As Joseph zipped up his jacket, Grandad grabbed the small, black notebook he kept at his bedside and began scribbling down something. Joseph didn’t have to look; he knew what he was writing - the same three numbers – 16, 38, 23. That was all Grandad could write anymore, all he could muster from the depths of a once-vivid imagination. Joseph didn’t know what the numbers meant, but he figured it was something quite trivial – a locker combination, perhaps? Maybe it was nothing at all, just an echo from the past rattling around in Grandad’s head. It seemed to give him relief to scribble those numbers over and over again, so Joseph figured that was reason enough to let it continue.

Joseph’s drive home was long and dark, as usual. These country roads had no streetlights, just the occasional moonlight that managed to escape the umbrella of trees overhead. Joseph’s pickup truck was old and about ready for the scrapyard, but there was no money for a new one. He hoped it would at least last until Grandad passed. Then, he could move closer to his son in the city, where they had buses and a subway. There was no need for a truck there. Joseph pulled into the driveway of his home, the same house that he had first laid eyes upon on that fateful February day so long ago. This was his grandfather’s house, where he came to live after the accident.

Now, it was his house, all of it. The cracked foundation, the slowly disintegrating wood, the broken windows, even the tree growing out of the roof – all of it belonged to Joseph. The house reminded Joseph of better times. He could stand outside and remember when it was beautiful. Grandad had his garden over there – biggest tomatoes you ever saw. The yard was always so alive, so green. Standing on the gravel driveway, Joseph could see his younger self doing chores. There he was mowing the lawn. There he was painting the shutters. There he was hauling firewood to the pile. The memories wrapped around the present, and for a minute, Joseph felt happy once again.

The mailbox was overflowing. It had been a few days since Joseph checked it. Those trips to the mailbox were always a treat – threatening letters from the IRS, threatening letters from his ex-wife about how he would never see his son again, overdue electric bills, and so forth. Joseph couldn’t remember the last time he had more than a hundred bucks in his bank account. The mistakes he had made, they added up. He should have never trusted his business partner. He should have never trusted his ex-wife. And yeah, he probably shouldn’t have developed that addiction to painkillers. But now, all of that was behind him. Joseph wanted to start anew, to build a life for his son and finally overcome the demons that haunted him. He felt like he was getting there, but then Grandad got sick. Joseph put all the money he had down to reserve the space at Elmhurst. He didn’t want to, but the doctor insisted. He wanted his grandfather to spend his last days at home, where he was comfortable. Lawyers told him it wasn’t possible.

Joseph just wanted to drink a beer and let this day fade away. He kicked off his boots, grabbed a bottle from the fridge, and sat down on the couch to relax. He looked at the clock. It was almost eight, time to make that daily call. He grabbed the phone and dialed - straight to voicemail, again. It had been a month since he last spoke to his son, Gavin. Tears welled up in Joseph’s eyes as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

It seemed like only a couple minutes later that Joseph was startled awake by the ringing telephone. “It has to be him”, he thought to himself as he reached for the phone.

“Hello - Gavin, is this you?”

“Um, sir, this is Officer Mecklem of the police department. We received a call about a missing patient at Elmhurst. This was the number on the emergency contact form.”

Joseph began frantically putting on his boots. “My grandfather is missing?”, he yelled into the phone. “You realize his mind is gone, right?”

“Sir, we have officers out looking for him. We need you to come down and-“. Joseph didn’t even let the officer finish what he was saying. “I’m on my way!”

Joseph’s usual drive to Elmhurst took about thirty minutes. He made it in less than half that. He was met in the lobby by a police officer and his grandfather’s doctor, who explained that he had gone to check on the patient a few hours into the night and found him missing. Joseph exploded in anger, “He’s ninety years old! What do you mean he was just gone?”

The officer pleaded with Joseph to calm down. “Sir, he couldn’t have gotten far, we will find him. I suggest you wait here in case we need to get more information.”

Joseph walked to his grandfather’s room and sat down on the bed, wracking his brain for a possible explanation to where the old man could have gone. A hopeless feeling came over him. “This is it; this is the end.” He slumped back against the wall and began to weep. Joseph put his hand on his grandfather’s pillow, he just wanted to feel close to him.

Suddenly, he jumped up.

“The notebook. Where is the notebook?”

It was gone.

In his mind, Joseph could hear the painful cries of his grandfather. The same thing, every damn time. “Take me home! I want to go home!” Could it be? Is it possible that deep down in Grandad’s mind existed a burning desire to see his real home one final time?

Joseph ran out of the nursing home and jumped in his truck. He sped home as fast as the road would allow, the old truck’s battle-hardened engine giving perhaps its last ounce of fire. He swung into the driveway and ran to the front door. It was open!

Joseph walked inside and turned on the lamp. There, sitting in his favorite recliner, was his grandfather. On his lap was the black notebook.

Joseph sat down on the couch and put his hand on his grandfather’s knee. “Grandad, you scared the hell out of me. What were you thinking?”

His grandfather smiled. It was the first time Joseph had seen that smile in over a year.

“Joseph, I told you that I wanted to go home. I have something for you. Get me my hammer.”

Against his better judgement, Joseph walked out to the garage and grabbed his grandfather’s old Craftsman hammer from the workbench. He came back into the living room to find Grandad kneeling on the floor.

“Here’s your hammer, can you please explain to me what you are doing?”

His grandfather grabbed the hammer, smiled once again, and proceeded to pry up a board from the wood floor. He reached down under the floor and pulled up a small silver lockbox.

“Joseph, would you please get my notebook for me?”

Joseph grabbed the black notebook and handed it over.

“I told you that I needed to get my money. Ah yes, here it is…..16, 38, 23.”

Joseph watched as his grandfather spun the small combination lock to its proper digits. The box popped open. Grandad reached into the box and pulled out a blue bag, then handed it to Joseph.

“Joseph, you have sacrificed so much for me. I want you to take this and go build a life for you and your son. You deserve it.”

Joseph trembled as he opened the bag and pulled out two large stacks of bills. On top of the stack was a note, “For Joseph - my son, my life, my best friend. I love you, Grandad”.

Joseph helped his grandfather back into his favorite chair and sat back down on the couch. He flipped through the cash. There had to be $20,000 - all in hundred-dollar bills.

“Grandad, I….I….I don’t know what to say.”

His grandfather looked at Joseph one last time and smiled.

“We don’t need words, son. We both know what this life has meant.”

And with that, Joseph’s grandfather closed his eyes and took his final breath.