"Raising Samuel" scene: A blanket

[violetcheetah]

Note: "Grumpa" is Sam's grandfather. Also, this is not a light, fun vignette like the others.

"Mom, can you get me down a blanket?"

"Gimme a few; I'm in the middle of a mess."

His running pajama'd feet added vibrato to his whine. "I need it now-w-w-w." He stopped in the kitchen doorway as I pulled my head out of the oven and held up my hands in their spattered gloves. "Why does it smell like litter pan?"

"Because pee has ammonia in it, and some brilliant person ages and ages ago discovered that ammonia happens to clean grease really well."

"They peed in their oven?"

"No, they... You know, I don't actually know where they got it from. We'll look it up later." I turned back toward the oven.

"Can I have permission to use the stepstool to get a blanket?"

"Why don't you just use the one from you bed?"

"It's not for me, it's for Grumpa."

"He can get his own blanket if he wants one, love."

"But he's sleeping."

"Then he's probably pretty comfortable with the blankets he has."

"But he's cold."

"If he were that cold, it'd wake him up."

"Maybe he's too cold to wake up."

"That only happens if someone's out in a blizzard or something. I don't —" I felt the one quick thud in my chest before I knew what I knew. The kitchen was painfully bright and crushingly dim at the same time, and Sam was somehow ten yards away. I pulled down the bandana I'd been using as a mask, and the fumes that reached me were now reassuring. "Come here, love."

He wrinkled his nose. "Mah-ahm, you're dirty."

I looked down at my outstretched hands, still in the gloves. "You're quite right. Very silly of me." I couldn't think for a minute how to get them off, but then my fingers worked it out without me. I stood slowly, my joints stiff from contorting into the oven, but now oddly loose. The gloves went in the sink; I rinsed my hands for no good reason. Dried them. I wanted to put on a reassuring smile before I turned around, but then, "No." I wasn't sure if I'd said it out loud. "Let's go get a blanket for Grumpa." And we were walking down the hall.

I didn't want to move from in front of the linen closet. He wasn't dead yet, not to Sam, and as long as we stood there, he would still be alive. I wanted to call Larry, and I wanted to sit in the living room and wait for him to come, wait for hours for him to drive up. I could call Ruth, she could be here in 10 minutes, she'd be happy to, and she'd call the, whoever you call, who do you call, you don't need an ambulance, but I don't have a funeral home.

"The red one." Sam pointed to the middle of the stack. I was breathing. I was barefoot, and my feet were on the floor. Sam was beside me, and he needed me to get down a blanket, and then he would need something else, and it couldn't come from Ruth, and it couldn't wait for Larry, and it definitely shouldn't have sirens and uniforms and rushing. I breathed in and took down the red blanket and let him lead the way.

The sunlight streaming through the window stunned me, and the breeze. It was still just another morning to Sam as he tried to flick the blanket open.

"Sam." He held it out willingly, and I flicked it like I knew he wanted it done and spread it across the bed. Grumpa was lying on his stomach like always, his head on his arm, hand curled slightly but relaxed. "I need to tell you something. Something sad."

I saw the fear start, and I smoothed the bed and sat down and patted my lap. I didn't know what came next. Sam nestled against me with his thumb in his mouth, scared by the word "sad."

"Grumpa looks like he's asleep. But he's not. It's something different. It's very important to understand that even though it looks the same, it's not. Okay?" He nodded, even though it couldn't possibly make sense. I put a hand on Grumpa's shoulder. I expected it to be hard, like stone, but it wasn't. There was still some warmth, and that started my tears.

"I can feel that he's not breathing, Sam. If he were just asleep, he'd still be breathing, and I'd be able to feel his heart beat. Do you want to feel?" He didn't hesitate; there was no reason to be afraid to touch Grumpa. His held tilted in puzzlement, but his hand stayed by mine. "When someone isn't breathing, and their heart isn't beating —" Now his hand jerked away, but it was to twist around to look at me when I sobbed. "It's okay love, I'm okay. But when someone stops breathing, it means they're..." I couldn't say it like that; it sounded too much like "cold" and "hard." "It means they've died." My tears were hot, but they came without sobs.

He took his thumb out of his mouth. "I don't understand."

"That's okay. Even I don't understand, really. I don't think anybody understands, but a lot of people say they do. Mainly it means he's gone."

"But he's right here."

"His body is, yes, but something else is gone." I ached to talk about souls and heaven and seeing him again someday. I ached to believe that, and to give that belief to Sam. "The part of him that thinks and feels and... that's gone now."

"Where did it go?"

"I don't think anyone knows that, either."

"Well, when does it come back?" He put his hand back on Grumpa's shoulder, shook it tentatively.

"It doesn't. He can't come back. That's why it's sad, because he can't be here anymore."

Now Sam was finally crying. "I don't want him to be sad!"

"He's not. One thing I'm sure of is that he's not sad. The part of him that could be sad is part of what's gone. He's not sad, and he's not lonely, and he doesn't hurt."

"I don't understand." I started to say "That's okay" again, but he put his thumb back in his mouth, and I knew he was done talking for now.