Chapter 3
Three
The Composition Book
I’ve noticed something about dying, Boss. When you come into this world, you have all these people who want to take care of you, and you don’t know any of them. Then, when you’re leaving this world, you have all these people you do know, but few of them want to be bothered.
I went to a facility last week. It was recommended by my doctor.
Plenty of windows. Good light. But sad. Sad in that dreary, dragging manner of old folks’ homes, with their carpeted hallways and low--volume conversations and lingering smells from the last meal cooked, like fried fish or macaroni and cheese.
I’ll be heading there soon. I have no choice. This disease I have will render me immobile and noncommunicative. They’ll keep me fed and hydrated (sounds like a plant, now that I write it). And pretty soon, I’ll be gone.
It’s OK. I’ve accepted it. To be honest, I think I’ll miss walking more than talking. The only person I enjoy speaking to anymore is you.
I hope that doesn’t embarrass you, Boss.
This all ties back to the story. You see, before we left Florida, my father and I went to visit my grandmother in a nursing home, much like the one where I’ll soon be heading.
It was in a town called Hollywood, which I expected to look like the California version.
It did not. Back in the 1970s, Hollywood, Florida, was a sprawl of ranch homes, palm trees, a pink--cement ocean promenade, and an Indian reservation.
My mother’s Mom, Nina—-who I always called “Yaya Nina”—-was born in Greece but immigrated to America with her family when she was young.
She grew up in the Florida heat and, the story goes, married the first man to ever take her to an air--conditioned movie theater, my grandpa Billy.
They moved to Virginia, where he worked as a fisherman.
They had one child together, my mother, and not long after she became the first in the family to go to college, Grandpa Billy died.
Heart attack. I never got to meet him. He was buried at sea.
Yaya Nina moved back to Florida. She never left.
Before my mom died, we used to visit Yaya a lot, but after that, there wasn’t much contact beyond birthday cards and a phone call at the holidays.
The last time I’d seen Yaya was at my mother’s funeral.
She’d stayed at our house and baked me shortbread cookies filled with orange jam.
At one point we were in the kitchen together—-she was smoking, which she often did—-and she said something curious.
She was holding one of the framed photos we had put around the house, a picture of my mom in Kenya, reading the Bible to the village kids.
“She didn’t have to go all the way to Africa, you know,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“She could have helped people here.”
I thought about that. Maybe if she had stayed in America, she would still be alive. This was before I understood that all the magic in the world couldn’t delay death.
“Did you ever tell her that, Yaya?” I asked.
“No.” She looked away. “But I will.”
?
It was my idea to visit Yaya Nina, seeing as we were in Miami and so close. My dad agreed without much fuss, I’m guessing because he was happy about my college news.
“She might not recognize you,” he warned.
“Why not?”
“It’s been eleven years. I don’t know what kind of shape she’s in.”
We had to look up the facility in the phone book.
It was a single--level, red brick structure, with pale green carpet and easy--listening music playing over the speakers.
We asked for my grandmother at the front desk.
When they brought her out, she was in a wheelchair, and since we hadn’t called ahead, I thought she’d be surprised to see us.
But she quickly took my hand and smiled, causing her face to wrinkle into so many lines, it seemed as if she were drawn with an Etch A Sketch.
Her cheekbones nearly pushed through her tanned skin, and her straight hair, silver and white, still hung over her forehead in bangs. Her grip was strong.
“You, I want to talk to,” she told me, ignoring my dad.
She motioned the orderly to take us down the hall, and I looked back at my father, who nodded as if to say, Do as she wants. We left him in the lobby, went to her room together, and started talking.
That conversation changed everything.
?
“You got big,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Very tall now.”
“I guess.”
“And what are you going to do with your life?”
“I don’t know. I like music.”
“Mmm. Like your mother.”
She pointed to a glass of water, which I retrieved from her bureau. She took a long sip, then put the glass down so deliberately, you’d have thought it contained explosives.
“So, Alfie,” she said. “Got any cigarettes?”
“Yaya!” I laughed. “They let you smoke in here?”
“Of course, not. That’s why I asked.”
She ran her gaze up and down my body. I remembered as a child feeling that whenever she looked at me, there was something she wasn’t saying. I felt that way now.
“You have to understand,” she suddenly blurted out, “I was very angry at your father! Keeping us apart all these years! Last time I saw you, you were a child. Now look! Look at what I missed! Terrible!”
Her voice rose to a frustrated pitch. “I shouldn’t have screamed at him. But I couldn’t help it! I was mad!”
“When did you scream at him?”
“Just now. When you came in.”
“Yaya,” I said softly, “you didn’t say a word to him.”
She waved her fingers dismissively.
“The first time. I reamed him out pretty good.”
“What are you talking about?”
She stared straight at me, boring her eyes into mine. I felt myself shiver. Then, as if finishing a test, she relaxed and leaned back.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
She grinned.
“You can do it, too.”
?
It turned out, Boss, that my grandmother had the same power as me. So did her brother and her father, she said. There was no explanation, other than it seemed to pass from a loved one just before they died, as if knowing, with death looming, that it needed a new host.
“When was your first time?” Yaya asked me.
“Mom’s last day.”
“You saw that twice?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and looked to the window. “Makes sense. It’s usually a heartbreak that starts it. You want so badly to undo something. And then . . . it just happens.”
She shrugged. “Your mother’s power must have passed to you, just like my father’s passed to me.”
“Are we the only people in the world who can do this?”
“I don’t know anyone else. Do you?”
“Yaya, I didn’t know you could do it until just now.”
“Yes, well.” She clasped her hands together. “Now you do.”
“When was your first time?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“When I was ten, just after my father passed away.”
“What caused it?”
“There was this old man in our neighborhood. Always wore a brown suit and hat. One day, when my mother went to the grocery store, he came by the house. I was alone. He asked if I liked chocolate cake. He said he would give me some if I did something for him.”
“What?”
“Something a young girl should never be asked to do.”
“Oh, no.”
She looked down. “Before he could touch me, I ran out the door. I hid in the trees all day, crying and wishing I had gone with my mother. I fell asleep on the ground. When I woke up, it was morning again and I was back in bed. Same clothes. Same breakfast. I thought I was dreaming. This time I went to the store and held my mother’s arm. I screamed when she tried to let go.”
“Did you ever see that man again?”
“Once, a few years later. I was with my friends at the boardwalk. He walked by in his brown suit and I pointed and started yelling, ‘Creeper! Creeper!’ He ran away.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And after that, did you start time jumping?”
“Oh, eventually, yes. I did many things over. Not so much anymore.”
She leaned in. Her voice lowered.
“Alfie?”
“Uh--huh?”
“Have you told your father?”
“No.”
She leaned back. “Better that way.”
“I guess.”
We sat there in the hung silence that follows a confession.
I suddenly felt so connected to my grandmother.
I also realized I had just taken part in one of her time jumps, and had no idea what had happened the first go--around, except that she’d yelled at my father.
So this was what it felt like for everyone I had affected that way. It felt like . . . nothing.
She tried to change the mood. She tapped my thigh.
“So. You got a girlfriend?”
“Not really . . . There’s this one girl.”
“Tell me.”
“Not much to tell.”
“You love her?”
“Come on, Yaya.”
“What?”
“We haven’t even gone out yet.”
“Well.” She straightened her dress in her lap. “Just be careful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your power. It’s very tempting with love. You’ll think you can make everything perfect.” She grabbed my hand. “You can’t, OK? You understand?”
“Yes, Yaya.”
She released her grip. Her shoulders drooped.
“I’m tired, Alfie. I didn’t know you were coming. You should call next time, so I can drink some coffee before you get here.” She looked toward the door. “Call for the nurse. I want to get back into bed.”
“Wait, Yaya—-”
There was so much more I wanted to know.
“Why do we only get to go back once?” I asked.
She scratched her head, then looked at her fingers.
“I really wish I had a cigarette.”
“Yaya, did you hear me? Why do we only get to go back once?”
She sighed, as if it were obvious.
“Alfie, if you keep getting second chances, you won’t learn a damn thing.”
Nassau
“Miss me?” LaPorta said, reentering the room.
“Everything all right?” Alfie said.
“Yep. Had to pee, that’s all.”