“Yeah, Julie — it’s Jackie —- Grandma —-,” my sister hesitates.
I’m filled with a momentary sense of dread. She wouldn’t leave news like that on a voice message. No, that’s something I’d do.
Oh, yeah — did.
The drive to the emergency room after the call from the nurse — she wasn’t breathing when they went to wake her up — didn’t know how long she had — it says ‘do not resuscitate’— pick up pick up pick up — oh god, please pick up.
I dialed and redialed, five sobbing messages running hopelessly together that Saturday morning three years ago. Her helpless, half-dressed body limp on the stiff gurney. So vulnerable. Breathe.
Whooo-sssssh. That’s her voice in the background.
“— just a minute Grandma,” then back into the phone, “Grandma says you haven’t been here in awhile, and she’s wondering —
“She’s wondering if you’re seeing a new man — or maybe,” little chuckle —
“a woman.”
Trudi pipes in, “Grandma’s nosey.”
“Ok, call us back and let us know.”
JULIE ANN STEVENS 