Chapter 9 - The Drive We Took Again
Grandma was ninety-four when she asked me to take a drive.
“Where?”
“Ohio.”
I knew immediately.
The facility.
The one from years earlier.
“Why?”
“Because I want lunch.”
“Grandma.”
“What?”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I know.”
So we drove.
One hundred ninety miles.
Same route.
Different car.
This time, Grandma controlled the radio.
Terrible decision.
She liked old country music.
Halfway there, Dad called.
Grandma answered.
“We're driving.”
“Where?”
“Ohio.”
Silence.
Dad understood.
“Mom…”
“Relax. Daniel isn't abandoning me.”
Dad laughed.
It was strange.
Good strange.
We ate lunch at a restaurant near the facility.
Then Grandma asked me to drive past it.
We didn't go inside.
She looked through the window.
The building seemed smaller than I remembered.
“Do you hate them?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Your parents.”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I did too.”
“Dad?”
“Both.”
That surprised me.
“Mom too?”
“She left.”
Fair.
“Do you still?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Grandma thought.
“Hatred became boring.”
I laughed.
“That simple?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“But that sounds better.”
We continued driving.
Then she told me to pull into a park.
We sat beside a lake.
Grandma removed an envelope from her purse.
Not another document.
A photograph.
It showed Grandpa and Grandma young.
Maybe twenty-five.
Dad was a baby.
Grandma looked impossibly young.
“He wasn't always this man,” she said.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“He was a sweet little boy.”
She touched the photograph.
“That's the hardest thing about children. You love every version of them, even when the adult version disappoints you.”
I didn't know what to say.
Grandma looked at me.
“You'll understand if you have children.”
I did eventually.
But that afternoon, I simply listened.
Before we left, Grandma asked:
“Do you remember what I said when I got into your car that day?”
“Yes.”
“Don't call them.”
“And?”
“I'll tell you where we're going.”
She smiled.
“You listened.”
“You're terrifying.”
“Correct.”
Then she clicked her seatbelt.
“Take me home.”
This time, the word meant something different.
Home wasn't the old house.
It wasn't Indianapolis.
It wasn't Ohio.
Home was where Grandma chose to go.
That had been the entire fight from the beginning.
Choice.
Who controlled her money.
Her property.
Her body.
Her future.
Her destination.
Dad had tried to choose for her.
So had Mom.
May you like
Grandpa sometimes had too.
Grandma spent her final years choosing for herself.
