Popcorn

1: Final Preparations

Okay. Let’s start this awful, one-for-the-books day at the beginning. That’s where most stories start, I guess.

I’m looking in the bathroom mirror, and what I see is decent. A bit gangly and skinny, but not terrible. Inside, I have the regular stew of butterflies and worries and some irritation that a certain someone’s nasty, yellowednighttime mouthguard was leaning on the bristles of my toothbrush this morning—but I take a couple of deep breaths. I actually feel halfway all right about what the mirror is showing me for once.

I clean up okay, as every adult likes to say when a kid puts in the slightest effort.
I wash my hands one more time—I’d used a tissue to move the mouthguard, but who knows if that’s at all effective. Gross stuff can probably pass through a tissue like air through a screen door.

I walk out into the kitchen, and my mom is there, waiting excitedly.

“Oh. You look absolutely perfect.”

She says that, but then she must see something wrong, because she does that disgusting mom move where she licks her thumb and wipes at something beside my mouth. A stray bit of scrambled egg? A toast crumb?

“Gross.”

As I wipe any residual spit away, she sits back, grabs my shoulders, and holds me at arm’s length.

“Look at this. Yes sir. That’s my handsome man.” Her eyes dart around from my new shirt to my fresh—one day old!—haircut. She smiles.

I haven’t seen much of that smile lately. I’ve seen a lot more of the stressed side-frown. The Susan Yaeger Chewing-Her-Lip Worry Face—which typically gives me the Andrew Yaeger Worried Stomach.

She pats my shoulders twice. “Mika and Jonesy’ll be here any minute, and I need to get to my Big First Day.” Today is her first day as executive assistant to some big important business guy, and we’re both stomach-churningly aware of how much she needs it to go well.

My grandmother, G, shuffles into the room in her neon-pink housecoat. She’s been living with us for the past year and a half or so. She stops in the middle of the kitchen and looks around, confused. Her graying hair looks like she got in a fight with her pillows.

My mom turns on her caregiver smile. “Hi, Mom. Can I get you anything?” She pulls a few cinnamon graham crackers—G’s favorite—out of the cupboard. G takes them, scratches her butt, and stands there staring at me like she’s not quite sure who I am.

“Doesn’t Andrew look nice, Mom? You always said looking nice for school photos was super important. It’s Picture Day!”

At the words Picture Day, my grandmother’s face lights up a bit—like the old G I used to know. She holds up a finger and croaks a quiet “Oh, yes, yes, yes.” Then she hurries (as much as she can) out of the room.

That’s the most excitement we’ve seen from G in weeks. “You can’t take the teacher out of the lady,” my mom says. “She used to get so worked up over school photos. Said ‘Those photos are how people will remember you forever.’ She wasn’t completely wrong, either. Somebody I went to school with friend-requested me the other day. I had no idea who she was until I got out my yearbook, and BOOM. Her school photo brought it all back.”

G walks back into the room—her arms full of middle school yearbooks. They’re frommy school, but they’re ancient.

G used to teach Social Studies at my school. Waaaay back. She taught there for years. I can’t count the number of times we’ve been stopped by former students at restaurants, thanking her and telling me what a great teacher she was. It’s kind of cool, I guess—although sometimes you just want to eat your mac and cheese bites in peace, y’know? It’s like living with a minor celebrity.

G thumps the books down. The stack spills over a bit, but she grabs the top one and opens it with a shaky hand. A number of individual photos—the kind you buy to give to friends—tumble out. Maybe fifteen of them. All students. I look up and G has a huge, proud grin on her face as she pages through to the faculty page. When she finds it, she spins the book around and points at her black-and-white photo. It’s a great picture—­she’s a lot younger, her hair is darker, and she’s wearing some kind of a vest that looks like it came out of an ancient sitcom.

“Pretty good, huh?” I look up and she’s waggling her eyebrows. “Huh?” It’s so good to see her happy that my mom and I both laugh. She nods and grabs another yearbook. While she’s looking, I pick up a few of the student photos. They all have writing on them:

For Mrs. Hanley—You are the best! Kaitlyn
Thank you so much Mrs. Hanley! Marcus
Have a great summer, Mrs. H! Jennifer
I can’t thank you enough.—Bob

Seems like they liked her a lot, which doesn’t surprise me. She was super fun and cool—before she started getting sick.

She shows me a couple more of her photos, where she’s wearing different but similar vests. Vests must have been her official yearbook photo look. Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a faint squeeze.

“You look good.” She smiles, but then straightens her back and pats her chest, looking me in the eye. “Up straight.” Then she pulls a second graham cracker out of her nightgown pocket and takes a bite. (The woman would eat them all day long if my mom didn’t keep them out of sight.) She looks down at the pile of yearbooks and back up at me, then turns around and starts shuffling back to her (my old) room. As she goes through the doorway, she lets out a fairly impressive burp.

Unfortunately, G isn’t “all there” these days.

I grab my backpack. I packed it last night—perfectly, as always. Everything in its proper compartment. (I have a system.) I put both straps over my shoulders, careful not to wrinkle the new shirt. I can’t remember the last time I had a Brand-New Shirt. One that isn’t a hand-me-down from my weird cousin in Des Moines. And this sucker has a collar, no less!

“Wait. Wait. Let me get a picture.” My mom grabs her iPhone—maybe the oldest iPhone still in circulation—and waves her hand for me to get over in front of the plants.

I watch her struggling to get the camera app to come up.

“You sure you don’t want me to skip today?” I ask. “I could ride along. Give moral support. Maybe a pep talk over lunch?”

“No way, pal. I’m riding solo today and YOU are gonna go get the best school picture of your life. Your sixth-grade photo looked like you were kidnapped or raised by wolves or something. But not this year, my well-put- together friend.”

She’s nervous. Which makes me nervous. She needs this job to work out. It could change things—and we really need things to change. And yep, as she aims the phone she’s chewing at that lip again—right on schedule. I feel something in my stomach twist. It’s nerves. Anxiety. But it feels like there’s a fussy iguana in there.

“Okay, Chin up. Up straight. Big smile. Million dollars!”

I do it as best I can, but I’m in my head.

“Good luck, Mom. I know you’re gonna slay.” She’s been playing that song where Beyoncé sings about slaying on a loop for a couple of days. Psyching herself up.

She sips her coffee. “Thank you. I intend to slay. But don’t worry about me, okay? I mean it. Just focus on having a good day and try not to mess up that shirt or your hair or whatever. I won’t be available to bring you a replacement, so don’t spill anything on it. What period are you getting your photos?”

“No idea.”

“Well, I hope it’s early.” She stares at me, but I can tell she’s not actually looking at me. She’s thinking. She darts off and comes back with my nicest T-shirt—the blue one—and hands it to me. “Put this in your backpack. Just in case. I really do want your photo to be nice this year. For you, but also for me. And for G! Oh, and I put some of those stain remover packet things in with your lunch.”

I slide the shirt into the back pocket by my ancient school-provided laptop. It irritates me, as I had everything just how I like it, but I don’t say anything. Adding the shirt bunches up my sack lunch, and I just know my PB&J is going to come out looking like smushed-up bread origami.

I put the pack on again and it doesn’t feel right. I’m a weirdo when it comes to my backpack, I’m aware. I tap the kitchen table five times without thinking about it. I fight the overwhelming urge to take everything out and repack it. Well, more than an urge, it’s a little voice telling me I need to. Or something might . . . happen. But there’s no time, and I don’t want to make my mom more nervous. Maybe I can repack on the bus. Not fixing it makes my chest feel tight.

There’s a knock on the apartment door as it swings open. “Hallooooo?” It’s my best friend, Jonesy, and her mom, Mika (my mom’s best friend). They step in as my mom shushes Jonesy.

“Shh shh shh. I’m hoping she’s going back to sleep.” Meaning G. Mika has a stack of Peoples and Us Weeklys under her arm. She’s going to watch G for the day while my mom goes to work. (I should have said: My grandma has Alzheimer’s disease and it’s gotten pretty bad, pretty fast—some days she forgets who we are or why she lives here. And she kind of likes to wander. That’s part of why my mom needs this new big job—so we can get her more help.)

“Whoa. Who’s this fancy person, and what have you done with my friend Andrew?” Jonesy gives me a dramatic look up and down. “Combed hair? Ironed shorts? Nice!”

I roll my eyes. Normally I’d meet Jonesy on the bus after she catches it in her (much nicer) neighborhood, but today Mika brought her, so she gets to hang with me at my bus stop. Speaking of which, we need to hustle if we don’t want to miss it.

I give my mom a bear hug. “Okay. We gotta go. Good luck today. Be awesome. Break a leg.”

She laughs. “No, YOU break a leg! Be awesome! Love you!”

“Love you.” I kind of mumble it as I turn—all too aware of Jonesy. I mean, I love my mom, but in front of other people it’s just kind of weird saying it. I give Jonesy another little eye roll as I pass her, just to keep my street cred.

Then Jonesy and I are in the hallway. It smells like Mrs. Partridge is cooking broccoli in 3G—again—and I’m a little embarrassed for Jonesy to smell it. So gross. Who cooks broccoli at this time of the morning? Old people, I guess. Or maybe they make broccoli Pop-Tarts for older people?

We fly down the stairs. As we go by, Mr. Benchley is in the vestibule. He looks up over his glasses, perched on the very tip of his nose. (I swear he must glue them there.)

“Holy cow! Looking good, Andrew! What’s the special occasion?”

I look back as I push through the glass front door. “Picture Day. Gotta look our best, y’know?” I shrug and we head out.

1.5

Hold on.

I feel like I brushed over the whole “my grandma has Alzheimer’s” thing—and it’s something I need to go into. Because it’s pretty awful.

So, this is Chapter 1.5, okay. My book, my rules.

G—I’ve always called her G ’cause she liked that “better than Grandma or Grammy or Gee Goo”—has been a gigantic part of my life for as long as I can remember, and lately she’s just sort of . . . fading away.

I mean, she’s still there, right in front of us, but a lot of the things that made her who she was are drifting away. Like, her love of whacked-out, experimental baking. Or the way she used to gesture with her hands when she talked—something I inherited from her. Or how she’d make her famous Movie Theater Popcorn. She knew how to make it taste just like the stuff you’d get in a theater—better, even—and she’d get those red-and-white-striped tubs they have there to make it feel even more authentic. Comfy clothes, a blanket, her popcorn, and a movie or a game of Scrabble were the recipe for a great night at her condo.

But there’s also the way she was always so into what was going on in the world. She’s always been a superfan of news of all kinds. Local, national, international, political, money stuff.

She used to teach middle school social studies way back when, and she said going through the paper each day with her students was always part of her class. As long as my mom can remember, she’d read the paper first thing every day and watch the local and national news every night, plus more where she could find it. She read three different news magazines, cover to cover. But now she’s just . . . not interested anymore. In much of anything. It’s so not like her. She mostly looks out the window a lot now.

Maybe the thing that I miss the most is her laugh. She had one of the best laughs in the world. It was loud, abrupt, and it would burst out of her like nothing on earth was gonna stop it. My mom called it a blurt laugh, and it was, but then it would go on for a while. She’d laugh until tears came out of her eyes and we all worried she couldn’t breathe. My mom and I still play Scrabble from time to time, but without that laugh shaking the thin apartment walls, it doesn’t feel the same. It sucks—pardon my French.

G was always a little bit of a space cadet. She’d tell you that herself.

But a few years ago, things started getting worse. G started really having trouble remembering words.

I remember one particular day we were playing Scrabble at her condo’s kitchen table while she was baking some new weird cookies. (She experimented with cookie recipes like a mad scientist, and they didn’t always work out. Some were great, but some . . . Wow. Remind me to tell you about the Catastrophic Honey Mustard Cookie Mess of Death sometime.)

“Are you gonna stare at your tiles all day or are you gonna play, genius?” G talked to me like an adult, which is another thing I’ve always loved about her.

“Hold your horses, lady.” I made a face without looking up.

She sipped her tea while I tried to make my letters assemble into a word. Any word. I was wondering if SQUIX might be something when the oven beeped. She hopped up, pulling on her well-used oven mitts. When she opened the oven door, the smell was amazing. She pulled the cookies out and took them over to the sink for an Official G Inspection. She sniffed them, wafting the smell toward her nose with a mitt. Then she got down to eye level with them and poked lightly at two or three.

“Andrew. Hand me the . . . um . . .” She didn’t finish. She looked over at me, still crouched over.
“The . . . thing.”

“What thing?” I smiled and tipped my head to the side. Giving her a hard time.

She laughed but closed her eyes. “Oh, for cryin’ out . . . The flat thing.” She stood up, giving me a disgusted look. “This thing.” She waved her flat hand around. Acted out sliding it under the cookies.

She walked to the pot by the stove where she kept the utensils. She grabbed her metal spatula and waved it at me. “This, ya ding-dong. You know what I needed.”

Then she just stood there, looking at the spatula in her hand for a while. She chuckled and looked at me. “Why can I not come up with the name for this?”

I laughed, but then watched her smile fade a little. Her eyebrow twitched down for just a second. Then she looked up at me.

I wasn’t sure she wanted me to tell her, but it came out. “Spatula?”

“SPATULA!” Her arms shot into the air. “Good lord! I went completely blank! It was like my brain turned to pudding for a minute there. Thank you.”

It’s funny. As she got worse, that image of her brain turning to pudding quickly went from amusing to disturbing. It pops up in my head more often than I’d like. But she said it, and I can still hear the slight laugh in her raspy G voice when she did.

So, maybe that was the beginning of the serious stuff.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just a common everyday brain fart. Either way, things started getting worse. It was six or seven months later when she couldn’t quite think of my name one day. A few months after that she forgot my mom’s name at a block party. Her own daughter. I mean, she only forgot for a few seconds—but it wasn’t long before it was a common thing. And then one day she seemed completely confused about who I was. 

It was the scariest thing I’d ever experienced. Besides my mom, she probably knew me better than anyone in the world, and then . . . all that love and trust and knowledge. Just, gone. How could that be? It was gut-wrenching.

That’s when things started to get really bad. There was an incident where instead of coming home from her hair appointment, she just randomly drove up to Indianapolis. She called my mom and had no idea how to get home or where she was.

Not long after that she had to move in with us, and I let her have my room because of course that’s what you do, but it means I have to sleep on the stupid fold-out couch in the front room with the sun coming through the blinds at the crack of dawn and I have to keep my clothes in the coat closet and she’s super messy and sometimes she stays in the bathroom for forever and we don’t know if she’s actually doing something or she’s zombie’d out and just staring off . . . and I really miss my room and my stuff and my space and . . .

Sorry.
I love G, but . . .
Wow.
I guess I needed to get that out.