HOTTUB HEAVEN THE CONTINUATION
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By Jacquie Windsor
[email protected]
(c)November 2001
"Gramma, I mean, Grandmother, I don't want to hear nothing more
about that place."
The old woman lying on the hospital bed glared at Sean through
her black pearly eyes, the sockets deeply wounded with the scars
of more than eighty years of life. Wrinkles and age presupposes
wisdom, but the young man just saw wrinkles and age.
She had always insisted on being called 'Grandmother'. There was
something noble about that title that 'Gramma' couldn't convey.
"Your father's hunting lodge, Sean. You don't want to hear any
more about it. That doesn't puzzle me."
Sean looked up, blankly, out of focus, at something, anything, to
divert his attention from his Grandmother. An IV bottle,
suspended from a metal pole near the bed, refracted the
fluorescent ceiling light. The half-drawn plastic curtain,
between her and the other patient, bore creases from constant
use. He couldn't see the face of the other patient, or that of
the black-suited reverend attending to his or her last wishes.
The hunting lodge was a place of death, and so was this hospital.
"I'm glad you came to see me, Sean," rasped the old woman. "It
means a lot to me."
Nothing in the room could shake the young man from his torpor.
The feeling began even before he registered as a guest at the
reception area. The sight of the glass and brick structure, the
giant round sign with a white 'H' on a green background, the
alabaster statue of a hooded man with outstretched arms on the
lawn, and the burst of an ambulance siren by the emergency
entrance, all were enough to make him wish he hadn't come to
visit the old woman.
Then, inside, the odour of the institutional cleaner, or the
smell of people in the throes of recovery or impending death.
There was no distinction in this place. Everything smelled the
same. The cafeteria menu would not change, regardless of whether
the diner was the healer or the healed, the sick or the well, the
severely hurt or the hypochondriac.
"Sean, I know you're still no finer off now than when my son
passed on," the old woman offered in a tremulous monotone.
"Passed on?" the young man thought, mouthing the words while his
eyes narrowed to meet his grandmother's gaze.
Her son, his father, had not simply passed on. He'd shot himself
in the head, at the hunting lodge, the day after his wife's body
was found in the lake in the remote wilderness of northern
Saskatchewan.
Sean wanted to bolt from his grandmother's bedside. Earlier in
the week he'd done just that, onto a sixth storey mezzanine
walkway that soared over the manicured jungle of the vast
hospital atrium. Only the dizziness that came with severe
acrophobia, and the numbing aroma pervading the place, prevented
him from acting out a terrible urge to leap over the railing and
onto the patterned bricks on the floor, fifteen metres down.
"You still hold the title to that property, dear boy," the old
woman said, puncturing Sean's mood. "You could have gotten rid of
it by now."
He furrowed his brow, blinking hard, as his bed-ridden
grandmother seemed to clench her atrophied hand into a ball.
"You keep it because of Tom, not because of your parents," she
continued. "I can tell. Your parents had no meaning for you. Tom
did."
Sean shook his head.
Tom, his younger brother, had taken his own life at the family
cabin the year before their parents died. Tom, the over-achiever
with the mischievous laugh and the love of music. Tom, the 'A'-
student whom, by now, everyone expects to commit suicide. Tom,
the loner who cared little or nothing for popularity among his
classmates, until he said so posthumously in a selection from his
diary that was read at his funeral.
Sean shook his head again.
"Grandmother, what's wrong? With us. Why?"
"Fifty years ago," she began, "I was a radio operator in the Air
Force."
"Grandmother, you built radios. You weren't actually in the Air
Force."
"Shush. I was in the Air Force, Sean. You have your version of
our family history. I know the truth and you should too."
"I don't get it," the young man said.
"Sean, you must remember your first time. Young teens maybe?
Perhaps your mother used to let her underwear drip-dry in the
back yard. Maybe it was the laundry room? Or coming home early
from school?"
Sean's lips parted in astonishment.
"What, exactly, are you trying to say, Grandmother?"
A wan smile curled on her lips. The tube entering her nose
stopped her grin from broadening into a full smile. Sean rubbed
his forehead and tried to look elsewhere. She knew.
"How, I mean, why, uh, what do you know that I don't," he
sputtered.
"That you like the clothes. You're probably wearing something
right now, under all that," guessed Sean's grandmother. "I know
why Tom really killed himself. He thought he was going bald,
Sean. That without the hair, he couldn't be who he wanted to
become."
Sean scowled. "No!" His outburst caught the attention of the
minister at the bedside of his grandmother's roommate in the
intensive care unit. Embarrassed, Sean put his index finger to
his lips and nodded. His voice fell into a barely audible
whisper.
"Grandmother. You can't be saying you know that I, uh, wear
women's clothing. Or that Tom did too. That's crazy. You must be
very, very sick."
"No, my boy. You have to be that way. I know. I went through that
stage."
"You?" Sean squinted, careful to keep his voice low, so that the
other patient wouldn't be disturbed.
He didn't have to worry about the volume or tone of his
conversation. Within five minutes, the preacher had departed and
a pair of orderlies arrived to cocoon the other patient in a
heavy sheet, disconnect the life-support, and wheel the corpse
out of the room.
"As I am nearly gone, my boy," said his grandmother, "you will
carry on as I have done. Seems like such a short time ago I was
in your very place, visiting my own grandmother to read Gogol to
her in the original tongue. And hearing her words cut into my
soul the same way. Don't leave me this way today, Sean. Unplug
everything. I am tired. Just tired."
"Then Sean dies too," said the young man. "The same way. When?
Hours later? Days?"
His grandmother gulped for a breath of air. "Sean. I just hurt.
Please. Do this. Please."
A slender tear creased the young man's cheek. This was his
grandmother's living will. Unplug everything.
Then the family heirloom would be hers.
Mila
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