The Becoming

The television was so loud that the plastic housing rattled every time something dramatic happened and music had to tell you how to feel. The sound filled the room and made the boy’s ears hurt and his jaw clench. The coughing had started a few minutes ago. She wouldn‘t stop. It was the guttural equivalent of when Mr. Garrison had that old rustbucket car with holes in the muffler and would circle around the neighbourhood endlessly. Grandma sat straight up, her face pinched in pain. She made a hand gesture at the boy. The boy sat stiff at the motion. He drew his legs into his hands. He was watching her from the love seat. She made the gesture again and the boy shook his head. “Get them,” she croaked. The television blared some generic synthesized music while two people on the screen eyed each other contemptuously. Grandma sucked in a strained gulp of air. She was about to say something but cut herself off with a fist to her mouth. She was turning a very saturated shade of purple. Tears were pushing their way up to the surface of the boy’s eyes. He jumped up and stood in front of her. She wouldn’t stop. She arched back and collapsed with each heave.

“Grandma,” he said, doing a little nervous dance in place.

“Wat-r, wat-r.”

The boy ran into the kitchen. He slipped on the smooth surface of the vinyl tiling and caught himself on the fridge door handle. Grandma’s hacks traveled dully into the room and only ceased when he turned on the tap. He filled the glass until water spilled over the ridge and down his knuckles and along his forearm. He turned off the faucet and moved skillfully back to the living room .

She was on her side on the floor when the boy came back. He dropped the glass and shouted. Water splashed in every direction, turning to mini diamonds before his eyes. Grandma had her knees pulled up to her chin and her head off the ground. The gold crucifix she wore dangled left and right, it’s thin chain wriggling and jumping as if it were alive.

The boy fell to her level. “What? ” he asked. “What is it, Grandma?” Her wide, shining eyes met his, then at the fallen glass. “Oh,” the boy cried. He grabbed it and poured what was left down her throat.

“More,” she croaked, “get more.“ Her head dropped and she coughed into the green carpet.

The boy ran back into the kitchen, filled another glass and brought it back to Grandma. She had managed to get on all fours like a human coffee table. Her head hung low exposing the knob of her spinal column.

“Put that down and help me up, and don’t spill it this time.” The boy set the glass carefully on the oak end table. “Not on the edge, you’ll spill it all over again if you do that.” Her arms trembled and she grunted. “Come here,” she said, “Let me put my arm around your shoulders and you’ll stand up when I tell you to. Okay, that’s it. Stand up now.” The weight of Grandma made the boy’s legs wobble and threaten to give out on him again. “If you go down, boy, I don‘t think I’ll be getting up again anytime soon.” He gritted his teeth and held his breath. He took quick steps towards the couch. “Before you let me go, set me down, careful now.”

But it was too late. The boy collapsed in place like a building being demoed. Grandma fell backwards, towards the couch, her arms windmilling. She landed with a thud that rattled the windows.

“What‘d you do that for?“ she asked, her wheezing still apparent but not as bad as it had been. “Last time I ask you for help. You done screwed it all up, boy.”

“Sorry, Grandma.”

“Where are you? I can’t see you. ” She righted herself then leaned over and saw him crumpled by the feet of the couch. “Get up boy. It’s not right to lay on the floor like that. ”

It hurts to move,” the boy said.

There was a pause. He heard Grandma gulp down some Water. “Come on, boy, stand up, it will stop hurting once you get your limbs in the right places.”

The boy rocked around a few times before freeing an arm from under one of his thighs. The rest came easy. He stood up and faced Grandma.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

The boy nodded. “Are you lying?”

He shook his head.

“Were you scared? It’s okay if you were.” She reached for a tissue, hacked in it and balled the cloth into the pocket of her robe. ”

Yeah, I was.”

“What did you think was going to happen?”

“Gonna die.” The boy’s chin quivered.

“I didn’t, did I. Just like before I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“It was a bad spell is all. I get these from time to time, you know that.” Her attention went to the television, then back to the boy. “Quit looking at me like I’m dead., it’s scaring me.” She grabbed another tissue, hacked some more and made it disappear. “Either,” she cleared her throat. “Either sit down or get out of my way. You’re blocking my view.”

The boy slid aside and took a seat beside her on the edge of the couch.

“See that doctor?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“He’s having an affair with a nurse from the trauma ward. He’s got a wife and two kids to look after. Sick puppy is what he is.”

“Who’s that guy?”

“Who? Be more specific when you speak.”

“That guy. The one with the green shirt.”

“That’s not a shirt. That’s called a smock. He’s the head surgeon. He lost his wife in a drunk driving accident.”

“He operates on people’s heads?”

“No. He’s the head surgeon. Meaning he is the boss surgeon.”

“Who’s that lady.”

“Her name is Clarissa. She’s in love with one of the male nurses, Dominic, but also is smart for one of the female pharmacists down on the main floor. She was a child of the state until 18. Her foster dad molested her the whole time she lived with him.”

“Why does everyone have to have a sad life?”

“Because most people do.”

“Is that true?”

“No. Bad things rarely happen in someone’s life. It’s all the holding on people do that makes up most of the pain.”

The boy leaned over and put his head on Grandma’s chest. Her heart was strong and kept a steady tempo. In minutes he was fast asleep. Grandma noticed him during the next commercial break. His face was soft, unmarred yet by the ravages of time. She smoothed out the cowlick on the back of his head and kept her hand there. He was warm. “Stay sweet,” she whispered, “oh God, that’s all I ask of you now. Let him stay sweet.”