R
My grandfather grunts as I step over the threshold. I think of this threshold as two things - the one in the doorway, and the one between my role as "Amy: quiet and obedient daughter" and somebody else altogether. Somehow, my grandfather helps me forget; maybe because he has forgotten, too. He is senile and doesn't talk much. He doesn't expect me to play violin or get straight A's or get married. When I am with him, I find myself sharing memories I have never shared, even making jokes. I forget that I am supposed to be shy. I guess it's easier to talk to someone who only listens, although I can't always tell if Grandpa hears me.
Grandpa has quirks; he sleeps with his shoes on and wears red wool mittens no matter the weather. His most curious quality, however, is that he will only eat food that begins with the letter "R". I remember I used to visit Grandpa at the seniors' home with my mother, but that was before he became distant and confused. My mother doesn't visit him anymore, and she doesn't like it when I do. She acts as though he's contagious.
One day during visiting hours, a nurse told me that Grandpa had eaten nothing all day except for a few rich tea cookies at breakfast. She wondered if he was ill, but the next day at dinner he ate only the roast beef and left the potatoes untouched. I began to notice a pattern, and explained to the nurse that Grandpa had gone "R-tarian" (a term I made up).
I reach forward and take Grandpa's mitten in my hand. He doesn't remember my name, but he smiles when he sees me. "Ready to shop?" I ask him. He nods. Every Sunday I take Grandpa to the market down the street and we buy ingredients for an R-themed dinner. Before I put items in the basket, Grandpa gives them a nod of approval. A while back, I tried drawing R's on all his food items, letting him watch as I cooked a package of "roatmeal" with "rmilk" for his breakfast. He didn't fall for it. "Will these do?" I ask, showing him the russet potatoes in the basket. "Yes," he grunts. We head to the deli and I hold up a chicken. Grandpa scowls. "I'm making roast chicken," I explain, emphasizing the R. He smiles. After adding romaine lettuce, red peppers, and raspberries to the basket, I pay for the groceries and take Grandpa home. As I help him into his armchair for a nap, I notice the nurse in the doorway.
"You're unusual," she says. I try not to look taken aback. "You understand him?" She raises an eyebrow. I can't tell whether or not it's a question. "In some ways," I reply. "I just wanted to let you know," the nurse continues, "He talks about you." I pause and look up at her. She nods, her auburn curls bouncing up and down. "Your name's Amy, isn't it?" She smirks. I had never introduced myself. I feel a small smile spreading across my face as I adjust Grandpa's blanket; he is already fast asleep. I turn to thank the nurse, but then I hear the squeak of her sneakers, already halfway down the hall.
As I walk home, I think of words that begin with the letter R.
