Visiting

I had hardly opened my eyes Wednesday morning when she came to visit me. Just as I came into the room amand sat at the table, she came around the corner. I remember clasping my hands, feeling warmth and pressure of my interlocked fingers. It was all so real. Of course, I knew without raising my eyes who it was. My earliest and best memory, my grandmother Victoria, who raised me with her husband, my grandfather Vladimir. I grew up with them in a sizable two-bedroom apartment in Russia; my mother was too busy working to do more than visit me on the weekends.

I began to cry. Tears sprang from my eyes. I kept looking down, unable to look at her. I knew the effort she had gone to so she could see me. But that’s not really true. It would take much more for me to fully appreciate her effort. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself just then to understand. I looked up to her familiar face that I loved so well, her wise, smiling eyes. She hadn’t said a word as she sat down while I had just cried. I choked out a few words somehow.

“I’m sorry, I’m in jail again; I think my life is over.”

I looked down once again, feeling my hands clasped in their warmth. Crying.

She stood up and turned away.

I’d failed so badly most of the few times I’d seen her last year. Every time I walked into the house, she plied me with food.

“Are you hungry? Can I reheat something for you? I just made soup.”

I was so rude to her.

“Hell, why do you always offer me food? Can’t you ask me what I want? This is why I’m fat. We do nothing but shovel food down.”

I always shut her down with my complaining. She didn’t repeat her offer. I arrived and departed without eating.

Now she was leaving and I’d wasted this precious time telling her what she already must know, feeling sorry for myself. Just so long as I was the topic, right? It occurs to me just now that I will see her again. Even the previous few times, as she habitually offered me food, I had the presence of mind to get her attention and tell her how I loved and missed her. So I had done better, right? I’d improved and I could do it again.

Her departure pulled the words out of me.

“Grandma, wait, come back.”

It was too late. She turned the corner and went past the darkened hallway where I wasn’t allowed to go yet. I tried anyway, but as soon as I’d taken a few steps, my eyes kept opening, so I quickly went back to the room where I could still see the table, the gray carpet under my feet. In my selfishness, I kept calling to her, to anyone. Maybe my grandpa was there.

“Please come back. I’m sorry. Come back.”

There was no answer.

I returned to find my cell being inspected; it happened every Wednesday morning. As usual, we received some unjust minor reprimand. My cellmate enjoyed pulling out pictures of models from magazines and pasting them in the doorway. I gave him endless grief over it, but in truth I liked the pictures. It broke up the beige institutional monotony of the walls; each hard-won lack of space was a victory that made the old 7’-by-11’ feel more like home. I climbed back to my bunk and closed my eyes to nap. The plan was to eat lunch quickly; I wanted to call home as soon as I could.

She picked up on the first few rings as she usually does. It was a better phone call than most days. We talked about the case a little. I complained my lawyer hadn’t seen me; he had promised to a week ago. My mother explained his job was to work the case, not visit me in jail, so I would feel better. We talked about how addiction had destroyed my life. How everything had gone downhill for so long. Even before the drugs, I’d almost been expelled from high school and college. I’d been depressed, suicidal, married, divorced, hurt, abandoned, homeless, and self-destructive in every way I could imagine. My mother asked me how I could stop. Honestly, I told her, I didn’t know. I explained to her this worried me too. I had certainly tried, but every time, even if I thought I was doing right, I wasn’t. I had no idea how or what to do better.

The conversation meandered to other topics. My mom had walked her dog twice, a calm terrier named Larik, once in the morning and again at lunch. Her hand still hurt from when she broke her wrist in September. She had fallen asleep last night forgetting her splint; she was at work today and her hand hurt. The doctor took her cast off just a few weeks ago and she planned to do more physical therapy to help her nerve pain. I told her about my day. I didn’t mention the visit. I was excited to get new books from the library before dinner. Casually, my mother commented that it was Grandma’s birthday today. Mom planned to have a glass of wine to remember her. I choked back tears to say I missed Grandma too.

At that moment, my selfishness and regret fully struck me. What it had cost my grandmother to visit that morning. Now the tears came. It’s been 19 months and look what I’ve accomplished. The last time I had really seen her, she was on the floor of the kitchen. In one of life’s bizarre coincidences, I arrived at the house seconds before the paramedics to see her lying on the evergreen kitchen tile where she’d collapsed. She had a stroke that evening, or a seizure or an embolism. It wouldn’t matter by the end of the week. She died on a Sunday morning. I remember because I was with Ro, driving her car to an NA meeting, when my mom texted me a picture of Grandma intubated on her deathbed. I only sat through half of the meeting. I had only two months of clean time and Ro had none. It was too easy for me to walk out of the group and find the bong she had in her car. I got high. Seemingly, the only thing I remembered or knew how to do. The color of the NA Sixty Day key tag is called “no more county orange.” I threw mine out of the car window on the drive back home.

This county has green jumpsuits. I would know, I wear them every day. I swear to you, the green shade is exactly the same as that of the kitchen tiles.

*****

The story could end here. My grandmother on the green tile, me in a green jumpsuit; but life is stranger than fiction. This story is entirely true, so it has earned its strangeness. My grandmother Victoria died in April 2021. I’ve dreamed of her many times since then. In my dreams, we followed our patterns. She offered me food and I was rude to her. After a time, I learned better. I learned to stop the dream, and to hold on to her and tell her I love her and I was sorry. While writing this story, I understood why we invented typewriters and computers. It was so we could cry while we wrote. After all these dreams of her, and so consistently expressing myself so poorly, I’ve learned I will see my grandmother again. At least I hope I will.
I’m sorry; I love you and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m here, I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I’ve wasted so much of my life. I’m sorry I’ve worn these words out completely through overuse. If I could do it all over again, I’d eat all the food you cooked. I’d hug you and tell you how much I loved it. I have no idea how hard it was for you to visit. I wish we could have spoken; I will learn to dream better. I wish I was more coherent, but dreams are tricky like that. Please come and see me again. If you can’t or won’t, I’ll do my best to come visit you. Thank you for showing me you could come back. Thank you for telling me the story isn’t over.