Things That Last Forever

The first time she’s told about death, it means nothing to her. Quite simply, she doesn’t get it. It’s a concept too big to grasp—she’s only eight, and she’s never thought about it before.

She doesn’t think about forever and never again. Doesn’t think about angels and God and Heaven, even though that’s how it’s explained to her. Instead, she sees her grandfather, her best friend, in his favourite chair wearing his old red housecoat, and knows something isn’t right.

That something is cancer. If she doesn’t understand death, she understands this even less. She knows, in theory, that it’s making her grandpa sick, what’s taking away his colour and making it too hard to leave his chair. It’s why he can’t play like he used to. It’s why she has to bring all of her toys into the living room, so that her grandpa can watch and say funny things occasionally.

“Your birthday’s coming up,” her grandpa tells her as she builds a castle out of blocks. “I’ll be here for your birthday. I promise.”

She smiles at him over her shoulder, hands frozen on her soon-to-be castle. Her birthday is a long time away, from her perspective; death and cancer and horrible things like that seem like they are too. Unreal and distant, not something to worry about immediately.

And, anyway, Grandpa always keeps his promises.

**

Nobody plays like Grandpa.

Right now, her favourite movie is “The Land Before Time” so she pretends she is Sarah the triceratops and makes her grandpa chase her around, roaring and stomping like a tyrannosaurus rex. Her little sister wants to play too; she crowns her Ducky and the two of them hide together under the table while their grandpa careens past, making lots of noise.

At the moment, she wants to be a palaeontologist when she grows up, and her grandpa is going to help her. Together, they go on long walks looking for dinosaur bones. She dreams of coming across a full skeleton in the river valley near their house, or in the woods by the lake they visit, but her discovery remains out of reach. Instead, he tells her the names of different flowers and they make big bunches to give to her grandma and her mother.

Now, she plods behind him, pointing at one flower or another, and listens to him talk, committing each word to memory with a solemn expression on her face. Her grandpa is the smartest person she knows.

**

“If I drink this, I’ll fall asleep before the movie’s over,” her grandpa threatens, frowning down at her as he pours hot water into two cups. She hands him up the tea bags and watches as he dangles them into the water to steep.

“It doesn’t really make you sleepy,” she protests, all-knowingly. Her mother told her that Sleepy Time tea was just a name, not the truth; she thinks it’s about time her grandpa knows this too.

“I’m going to fall asleep and have a long nap,” he warns. “No one will be able to wake me up.”

She rolls her eyes and hurries into the living room so that she can get the movie ready to go. Has to rewind the tape because no one ever does, even though the sticker on it says to. The VCR is whirring and she is waiting impatiently when he comes in with the tea. He sees her progress and says, “Now you’re cooking with gas!”

They’re going to watch “The Neverending Story”, which is a special movie she only watches with him. Secretly, she wants to marry Atreyu someday; either that, or she wants to be the princess, who gets to wear tiaras that look like fancy headbands. Also, she wants to be blonde, have blue eyes, and be sixteen; these are all of her deep dark secrets. She tells them to no one, no one except Grandpa, who tells her he likes her hair the way it is.

“When you’re sixteen,” he says, “you can drive me everywhere. First stop, we’ll go to the barbershop and get my hair done.”

Grandpa’s hair is very black, but only because he dyes it. This close up, he smells like strong cologne and their tea. He pokes her in the side when Atreyu makes his first appearance, and his smile is teasing.

**

Grandpa was the first one in his family to be born in Canada. She knows his family is from Italy, and that he makes excellent spaghetti that doesn’t ever stick, not even when they’re in the motor home camping. His mother, her great grandmother, has the same name as her little sister; this is fair, since she has the same name as her grandma.

Sometimes, he tells her stories about when he was young, before he met her grandma. He tells her about POW camps, and about how men had to draw lots and then play Russian roulette. He tells her about being a soldier. She doesn’t know what any of this means, and he won’t explain himself. She doesn’t like these stories very much, because Grandpa looks sad when he tells them, looks sad and faraway, too. Later on, she asks her mother, and finds out that Grandpa never was a POW, but that her grandma’s brother was.

“You don’t have to understand right now,” her grandpa says, when she’s asked him for a different story for what feels like the millionth time in a row. “You just have to listen. You just have to know.”

Sometimes, Grandpa tells her ghost stories, which are very scary. He also tells her about Peter and the Pearly Gates, which he says is where everyone ends up. She imagines Peter looking like Santa Claus with a great Naughty and Nice list; feels ridiculous, since she doesn’t believe in Santa anymore.

Sometimes, they write their own stories, which is her favourite thing to do. They make them up about her family, and he writes them down so that they have a whole collection of silly stories. He calls her his writer, which suits her better than her palaeontologist phase. She’s outgrown that, and never had much patience for digs, anyway.

**

Before it happens, her mother takes her and her little sister out of school. They all go over to Grandpa and Grandma’s, which is exciting and wrong during a school day. Grandpa can’t play at all anymore—now she thinks of Cancer with a capital c; thinks of death with choking foreboding—but she and her sister pretend that all is well, and include him in the games anyway. Her grandma and her mother watch from the kitchen, faces distorted with expressions she doesn’t understand.

When they have to go, her grandpa hugs her for a very long time. She feels like crying, although she isn’t sure why.

“If I could,” he whispers, “I’d hold onto you forever.”

His voice is too soft. The Cancer has made him weak. She wishes it was like a cold, like something doctors could make go away. Forever seems like a very long time, when her grandpa goes away.

“Me too,” she whispers, pressing her fingers into his red housecoat. “Me too, Grandpa.”

**

Grandpa keeps his promise. Three weeks after her ninth birthday, her father wakes her up in the middle of the night; tells her to go and get her little sister ready while he warms up the truck. They drive to the hospital because it is time to say goodbye.

Her mother is already there, and so are her cousins, her aunts, and her grandma. She can’t see Grandpa right away, even though she wants to. Her dad is crying and so is her mother; this in itself is so out of the ordinary that she is instantly upset herself. The nurse brings her and her sister paper and crayons; her mother tells her to make pictures for Grandpa.

It seems like a long time before they’re allowed in. Grandpa is sleeping on the bed, she thinks, but even she is old enough to realize that he isn’t breathing right. Her feet protest her movements—she doesn’t want to go any closer—but her grandma is beckoning her and her sister forward; lets her hold her hand when she gets close.

“Tell him about your picture,” says her grandma. “He can hear you.”

Grandpa looks too small on the bed; he seems little and weak. His skin is yellow and so is his face. Seeing Cancer makes her want to cry, and she does not want to say goodbye to her grandpa. Gently, she lays their pictures on Grandpa’s stomach.

Through a clogged up throat, she chokes, “We made you a story, Grandpa.”

And she tells him because he can hear her, and goodbye doesn’t happen if she keeps talking.

**

Before Cancer, he carves their initials into a tree, near the lake they visit, with his pocket-knife, which he calls The Little Knife That Does Everything.

He lifts her up high so that she can touch the indents in the wood. She traces them with her fingers, intent and concentrating.

He is smiling when he says, “This will last forever.”