Chapter 15. Lyric
Lyric
LIP OF THE DAY:
Sweet Dreams
I wake up on Saturday with a tangle of nerves in my stomach.
Not only is today Winter Formal dress shopping day, Grammy Viv also has her monthly doctor’s appointment.
We’ve got to be at the hospital by ten a.m. I stretch big from my bed and listen to see if I hear her stirring.
Nothing. Grammy Viv hates going to the doctor; she’s likely going to be a whole pain in my ass this morning.
But her appointments are important—and I’ve got to be the one to get her motivated to go.
It’s funny how one moment she can be so insistent on the fact that she wants me to live my life, be a kid, and the next, when faced with a trip to the hospital, she turns into a scared child.
I turn on the lights and do a quick morning routine in the bathroom.
After moisturizer and SPF, I add a little skin tint, a hint of mauve cream blush, some mascara, and a soft-rose pink lip called Sweet Dreams. I find a clean pair of boyfriend jeans, an oversized cream sweatshirt, and then pull on thick socks and my thrifted, baby-pink Doc Martens. Then it’s time to wake Grammy.
I knock softly on her door. “Grammy? We have to leave in forty-five minutes for your appointment. Are you up?”
Silence. I crack the door and peer in. To my surprise, Grammy is sitting upright on her bed, staring at something in her hand.
“Grammy?” I say again. “Are you OK?”
Grammy shoves whatever she is holding under her pillow and looks up at me fiercely. “As good as I’m gonna be.”
“OK, well, we need to get you dressed.”
“I know that. I was just taking a moment for myself, before I get all poked and prodded.”
I sigh. “I know you hate this, but it’s important. I’ll be there the whole time.”
“Hrumph.” Grammy stands slowly, and I rush to bring her her cane. She takes it from me without a word and walks slowly into the bathroom. She shuts the door in my face before I have time to ask if she needs help sitting down on the toilet.
“OK, I’ll find you something to wear,” I yell through the door. “Any requests?”
“My light blue set,” Grammy calls back.
I nod and grab the requested items from Grammy’s dresser.
Then I remember that whatever she shoved under her pillow is still there.
I sneak over and lift a corner of her pillow only to find a small, silver framed photo.
It’s my mom when she was about my age, smiling and laughing on Muskegon Beach.
She looks free, lovely—and healthy. Nothing like the Mom I know, the one who disappeared into the corners of her own mind.
I feel a flash of pain rush up my neck as I put back the photo, and fluff the pillow on top of it.
I know Grammy must miss my mom—her only child—but I didn’t think she’d been hiding this from me.
I swallow hard, keeping tears at bay. Grammy had to make an impossible choice—all because of me.
I hear the toilet flush and then Grammy is back in the room.
I help her get dressed, making sure her bra is hooked, her socks and shoes on, and finally adding some small, gold hoops to her ears and brushing her soft, gray curls until they create a little neat afro around her perfectly angular face.
“Give me a lil color,” Grammy says, staring at herself in the mirror above her dresser.
I add a little blush to her cheeks and dab some of the same soft-rose pink on her lips as mine.
When I’m done, she gives me a slow, sad smile.
“Thanks, baby girl. That looks really nice.”
“You look beautiful,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “Ready to face anything.”
She nods but looks away. I try not to call attention to her hands—which seem to shake a little more than usual today. I know she’s nervous. That’s why I have to remain strong.
After a quick breakfast and suiting up for the cold, we huddle into the car and head to Sparrow Hospital.
As I drive, I scan the radio and settle on a ’90s station when I hear Lauryn Hill’s voice sing-rapping “Everything Is Everything.” I watch the intricate frost melt away from the windshield and take a deep breath.
Grammy Viv is silent the whole ride, which always happens when we visit the hospital.
I park, which thankfully isn’t too hard since it’s the weekend, and then we make our way to the orthopedics wing.
We check her in, and I run through and help her sign a bunch of forms on an iPad.
Then we wait. The intake room is covered in Christmas angels and silver tinsel.
I think it’s meant to make the room look festive, but under the fluorescent lights, it just looks sad and dull.
Before too long, we’re getting called back by a nurse who looks and sounds like she could be Dolly Parton’s little sister.
I hold Grammy’s hand as the nurse, Pamela, clacks her nails and takes Grammy’s temperature, checks her blood pressure, and then prepares to draw blood.
“Tell us when the needle is coming. She’ll need to look away,” I tell Pamela as Grammy’s hand tightens around mine. “She’ll get faint.”
“Understood, sweetheart.” She nods. “I’ll be gentle as a kitten, don’t you worry.” She continues looking for a vein in Grammy’s arm.
“They always say that.” Grammy grumbles. “Then it’s like y’all are digging for gold in my veins.”
I give Pamela an apologetic look, and then turn my attention back to Grammy.
“Hey—so, um. I’m going to go to Winter Formal next week,” I tell Grammy, hoping it’ll be a distraction.
It works, because Grammy’s eyes light up for the first time today, and a crooked smile draws across her face. “Lyric Watkins—you mean to tell me you’re taking my advice and having a little fun in your last year of high school?”
“Well, I don’t know about fun. But yeah, I figured I shouldn’t graduate high school without at least attending one dance. Plus, I’m going to do a whole makeup look and shoot some content. So, it’s also gonna be business for me.”
“I’m getting the needle out,” Pamela warns. I nod as Grammy squeezes her eyes shut like a child. Pamela expertly finds a vein, inserts the needle, and begins filling up three vials’ worth of Grammy’s blood.
Grammy barely flinches, and relaxes enough to keep talking.
“That lil light-skinned boy taking you to the dance? Or is it your hot lady friend with the white mom?” she says, eyes still closed.
“Grammy!” I start, shaking my head. “I told you, Jamison and I are over. And yes, Juniper will be there, but as I’ve said many times before, we are just friends. Kiana and her friend Holden will be there too. It’s a group thing.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, baby girl. Group or not, I’m so glad to see you enjoying yourself for once. Oh! And you’ll need a dress.”
“Blood is drawn and will be sent to the lab,” Pamela says, standing up and pulling off her gloves. “The doctor should be in shortly.”
“Thank you,” I say to Pamela as Grammy inspects the Band-Aid Pamela placed over where her blood was drawn. “At least it was quick and clean this time,” she mutters. And then, “Lyric, baby, hand me my purse.”
“No, Grammy. I don’t need any dress money. I’ve got it all covered, I just—”
“Hmmmph.” Grammy swats at me dismissively. “Give it.”
I sigh and hand over her bag. Grammy rifles through it and then, from some secret pocket, draws out a crisp fifty-dollar bill and waves it in my face. “For the dance! Use it for dinner before or something. I don’t care. Just have some fun.”
“Grammy—where did you get that?”
“None of your business. Just take it. This is TREAT YO’ SELF money. So, don’t go being all sensible with it, spending it on something boring. Have yourself a nice night out.”
“Did you just quote Parks and Recreation?” I scoff.
“Sure did. I love Retta. That’s my favorite episode.”
I laugh, and then take the bill from Grammy. I try not to think of all the things we could put it toward that would help us out as I stuff it into my jeans pocket. I’ll never not feel guilty for the ways she takes care of me above all else.
“Thank you,” I say, giving her a light hug. “I’m going to pick up my outfit at the mall with Juniper later. I’ll stop by the thrift store another day to see if I can find a fur stole to match … I’m hoping for a vintage, Etta James kinda vibe.”
“You better stop with that mess!” Grammy says. “You will do no such thing. Talking all that foolishness! I will not have you walking into your school dance in somebody else’s clothes. Thrifting is for white folks who don’t bathe.”
I grin, “OK, OK. I disagree, but I hear you.”
“About to give me a damn heart attack,” Grammy mutters, closing up her purse. “You better buy something new, Lyric. TREAT YO’ SELF!” she reiterates emphatically.
We both laugh, and the mood feels comfortable and safe again between us. That is, until Dr. Gail arrives, until Grammy’s face turns ashen with fear as she prods and checks and addresses the increased swelling and itching Grammy has been feeling in her legs as of late.
“This swelling and discomfort is due to blood clots, Ms. Watkins,” Dr. Gail says after her inspection. “Unfortunately, this is one of the most common side effects of hip surgery in older patients.”
“Tuh! Watch who you’re calling old,” Grammy Viv snaps.
Dr. Gail gives an apologetic nod. “Yes, of course you’re not old. I just meant in patients over a certain age.”
“So what can we do about it?” I jump in.
“Well, I’m going to prescribe an anticlotting medicine and I recommend you buy some compression socks. This will help. And then keep up your movement as much as possible—short walks, standing up and sitting down, keep things flowing.”
My head immediately runs over the cabinet of meds Grammy is already on, how much they cost, and how adding an additional med will likely increase this amount. But that’s for me to worry about later; right now I need to get Grammy on board with the socks.
“Give me more meds, fine!” Grammy is saying. “But Doctor, I will not be wearing them ugly-ass sock things. Over my dead body.”
“Grammy!” I try. “Nobody will even be able to see them half the time. Especially if you’re wearing pants.”
“Lyric—I don’t care if they’ll be hidden. I’m not doing it. I will know I’m wearing them, feeling like a sausage all stuffed inside them. No thank you.”
I sigh. Grammy Viv’s stubbornness is exhausting.
Dr. Gail gives me a sympathetic look, and affirms one last time that the socks will help with discomfort and pain.
But I can tell Grammy is over this visit.
The best thing to do right now is just get her out of here.
Dr. Gail types in a request for Grammy’s new meds, and then lets us know Grammy’s blood results should be up by the end of the day on the health portal.
When we exit the hospital, Grammy stops and inhales a big mouthful of fresh winter air.
“All done,” I say.
“Thank the lord. Now, let’s get ourselves something sweet.”
“Donuts?”
“You know it.”
“OK, fine. But then we have to pick up your new meds. And I have work this afternoon, so we can’t linger.”
“And you have your little shopping date.”
“Grammy, for the last time—”
“I know, I know. You and that girl are only ‘friends.’ I’m just saying, you’d make a good-looking couple.”
I ignore this comment. “Anyway, Ms. Mills will be in to check on you and take a short walk around four, and then I’ll be home by six thirty at the latest.”
“That’s fine by me. I got shows to watch,” Grammy says. “Now, let’s get the hell away from here.”
“As you wish,” I say, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street toward Dunkin.