Trembling With Fear 07/03/2022

Great-Grandpa by Edward Turner

His breath is always wet, as though there is something dripping deep inside him. In and out, in and out. Each breath coated in a dampness that pierces my thoughts.

We can hear him all the way down here. Mom dropped us off about an hour ago and said not to worry.  

Never to worry. 

My brother tells me thatMom grew up in another time. A time without questioning, a time without even the internet. 

We sit together on the couch. The coffee table before us is empty but for two large doilies splayed out like flowers. Their lace covers the wood of the table in white. 

Our great-grandmother is in the kitchen preparing snacks for us as she always does, though we won’t be able to enjoy them. 

I hear that raspy laugh reflecting down the wooden steps. Mom said that great-grandpa has taken to listening to old comedy records. I turn to Timothy and ask, “Do you think there is anything on those records we’d find funny?”

He shakes his head. He is a full three years older and wiser than me and he adds, “I don’t think there is anything in this house at all that we’d find funny.”  

He’s probably right. 

The slow boiling of the teapot can be heard over the silence of the living room. She always prepares her tea. She tells us one day we’ll try it and we’ll never turn back. She uses a small batch of hot water where she dips a ball of loose black tea leaves. She even grinds them herself.  

Waiting for the long process of her tea making, it feels like a timer leading to our doom. The sun lights the dust as it drifts across the room. I heard once that dust is nothing but skin flakes making their way through the air. 

I pray this is not true.

She peeks in suddenly and says, “Would you like to come help me, Amanda?” 

“Of course,” I say and get up from the couch. The plastic cover crunches as I get to my feet. I can feel Timothy’s eyes on me as I cross the room. 

My tummy rumbles as I take in the scent of baked cookies. Mom has learned over the years that it is best to starve us before we get here. 

She hands me a long oval plate covered in another of those doilies. On top are some cookies. No doubt they are wonderful and my stomach tells me so by growling. If only I agreed with the voice of my stomach.   

Mom always says, “You’ll get used to it, your aunt and I did.” She’ll boop my nose then and say, “It could always be worse sweetie.” 

I am not sure there is much in this world worse than the dread of waiting here now. 

I use my back to open the swinging kitchen door and step into the living room to place the oval plate of cookies onto the table. 

Timothy looks up at me and takes a cookie. The chocolate chips are half-melted and they stick to his lips and his teeth. I sit down next to him and ask, “How can you eat them so easily?” 

He shrugs, “If my stomach is full, I feel less queasy.”

I nod, I wonder about that. I do recall that the emptier my stomach is, the more easily the smell and sights seem to get to me. 

Great-grandmother comes through the door, leading with her back the same way I did. She has a small tray with some tea cups sitting atop it. There is also the tea itself and a small pitcher of lemonade. I wonder sometimes why old people never seem to have any pre-packaged drinks.  

She pours each of us a teacup of lemonade and a teacup of tea for herself. She then pours another for great-grandpa. She drops two cubes of sugar in and heads to the stairs to take it to him. 

I take a deep breath and ask, “What do you think?  Five minutes?” 

“I haven’t heard him laugh for a while, if he is done with his record, it will be sooner.” 

I feel the urge to cry suddenly, “I hate this Timothy, I really hate this.”

Great-Grandmother calls us after just a few moments and I cringe at the sound of her voice. We follow the sound of her voice up the steps until we get to the long dark hall where their room is the first on the left. 

Great-grandpa sits in his recliner, it is an orange plaid color. It is older than I am.  

I really love my great-grandpa, I just despise what he wants us to do.  

He takes notice of us and says, “Good evening kids, so glad you’ve come to see me tonight.” 

We both cringe and I am glad for a moment that he cannot see. 

I am glad too that he never seems to notice our revulsion. I wonder who will do this when we are too old to be forced. Great-grandmother says, “Go ahead and get to work kids, the lotion is on the tray as it always is.” 

I wonder if it’s ever her turn? She leaves the room just before we start, just as she always does. I dip my index finger into the lotion, just as Timothy does. We pull our fingers from the jar and wipe the excess off on the side just as he likes us to do.

I take a deep breath and look over at Timothy. He nods, and then we put our fingers into great-grandfather’s empty eye-sockets. 

They make a wet sloppy sound as they go in. Great-grandfather moans as I hold in a gag. Worse than the sound of our fingers in the place where we are told there were never eyes at all is the smell that comes from the sockets.  

The sound begins deep and then lightens as our fingers fall deep where there should be an eye. Another slight plop sound as they get to the edge and reach air again. 

Great-grandfather smiles with his mouth empty of teeth as he mumbles, “Yes that is so good. More lotion please.”