i had seen plenty of sick people before, so i figured it wouldn't be a big deal. besides, by the time we got to florida, my grandma would probably be okay. then we would have fun just as we used to. i remembered how important i had felt the summer before when my grandma carried me on her shoulders down the streets of st. petersburg.
my mother and i took the train to florida. she brought a bag of cherries along with us. it was a huge bag, but instead of giving me a handful to eat, she gave me to the whole bag to hold. after i ate my first handful, i looked at her, but she didn't say anything. although she sat next to me, she seemed far away, immersed in her own thoughts, as she vaguely looked out the window. i took another handful, and still she didn't say anything. she didn't even notice. my mom let me eat all the cherries i wanted, but when i looked down at my new shirt and discovered cherry stains on it, i was afraid i'd get in trouble. when i told my mom, she said it was okay, and she patiently wiped at the stains with a cold, wet rag.
we took a cab from the train station to my grandma's house. i got more and more excited as we approached. grandma was a great storyteller and her stories made me feel special whenever she told them.
"grandma, tell me a story," i'd say, and she would always begin the story, "once upon a time there was a boy named billy..." every story started with a boy named after me. when i arrived at her house, my first words were going to be, "grandma, tell me a story."
when i got to grandma's house, she didn't come out to meet me. even after i ran up the steps, she still didn't come out to meet me. i went into her bedroom. in a moment, i was changed forever, because what i saw in that room wasn't my happy-go-lucky grandmother. it was a crumpled body, thin and drawn.
that night as i lay in bed, i heard my grandma moaning in pain. it had the same effect on me as someone running fingernails across the blackboard. i just wanted it to stop. it continued all night.
the next morning, i asked my mom if i could leave because it hurt too much to see grandma that sick. she sent me home that afternoon on the plane. a few weeks later, my mother came home and asked me if it was all right if grandma came to live with us. i said yes, but in reality i never wanted to see my grandmother again.
although my grandma lived with us for the next few months, i never went into her room. she couldn't get out of bed. i didn't have to see her. every so often, when i walked past her room, i could see her with her back turned toward me. sometimes her backside showed from under her nightgown and i saw her wrinkled it looked with her back and bony pelvis showing through her hanging skin. i felt ashamed because i didn't think i should see this side of my grandmother.
one day, my grandma called to me as i walked by her room. i didn't want to go. her voice struck an intimate and familiar cord inside me. it was a voice i couldn't disappoint. i followed the voice as though in a daze. in her room, i didn't look at her. i jsut looked athe floor and told myself that this wasn't my grandmother - it just couldn't be.
i was about to run out of the room and leave it forever when she spoke, "once upon a time there was a boy named billy..." i followed her words to that place beyond words and crumpled bodies, to that place of recognition and recollection: "... and little billy loved his grandma very much...." i raised my head and looked at my grandmother. although her crumpled and dying body hadn't changed, i could now see behind her appearance. i went into her room every day after that until she died, and every day she told me another story about a boy named billy.
william elliott
chicken soup for the teenage soul on tough stuff: stories of tough times and lessons learned... copyright © 2001 by jack canfield and mark victor hansen... pages 315 - 317
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