Ever since I started speaking, my grandmother has tried to get me to call her Grams or Grammy, the way my cousins do. Despite her valiant effort, she's always been, and forever will remain, 'Olly, because that's what I've known her as since I was a baby. 'Olly stemmed from my attempts at saying "Molly", which is what all her friends call her. Her real name is Alice.
Sunday was her 85th birthday. We had a party at my uncle Jay's house. She has one of the Medical Alert things around her neck. At first I thought it was a mini iPod. I brought my laptop and showed her some pictures I took at my brother Ryan's school on Saturday. They were mostly of flowers, but there was also a couple of the old cemetary across from the campus. She saw those and said, "That's where I should be. The cemetary." All she meant was that she should have gone to the cemetary to water the flowers on my grandfather's grave and her parents' grave, but it sounded like she meant that she should be in the ground herself. She always talks about how she should be dead. I remember a few years ago we dropped Ryan off at his friend's house before the prom. Ryan was talking to some of his friends when he noticed his date was missing. He found her talking to my grandmother.
"She wasn't talking about death, was she?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
Yesterday, my mom sent me an email saying that she had to go home because 'Olly had been in an accident and the police called. That was all it said. I chill went down my spine and I called Michele to let her know, or even to see if she knew anything else, since she was at my mom's house and 'Olly lives next door. Michele didn't know anything about it, and I wasn't getting any answer at my parents' house. There was nothing I could do but sit at my desk and try to stop shaking.
At the same time, my boss was just getting off the phone with a woman from National Geographic who confirmed that they'd be using us as their design firm. He had been increasingly doubtful that we'd win the account, and and he got the word, decided we should celebrate with a bottle of wine. I didn't want to ruin the moment, but I was way too anxious to celebrate. I called home one more time and Glenn answered.
He said that 'Olly was back at home, she seemed to be fine, except for a bleeding lump on her arm. He didn't say much else, but at least I knew she was okay. I felt a little better and went out to the other room with everyone else and had a glass of sparkling something-or-other.
The bottle said "Negro" on it, which prompted Joe to once again tell us that he once brought two black friends over to the house and his father looked at them and said, "I don't know why Lincoln ever freed you people." Wow, I just never get tired of hearing that same damn story about Joe's racist father. In fact, last time he told it, about a month ago, I actually finished the story for him. Of course, afterwards he always defends his old man by saying that they were all the best of friends after that and his father was from the deep South, so blah blah blah.
I didn't hear much more about the accident for the rest of the day. When I called home that night, I got my dad, who didn't know much more than me, except that apparently my grandmather crashed into another old person.
Today I got another email from my mom. 'Olly thought she didn't have any money, so she went to the bank. She made a left turn across from the library and smacked into an old guy's car going the opposite direction. The police called my mom at work and told her that 'Olly refused to go to the hospital and she should come and get her. She drove her to emergency care at one thirty and left at quarter to six. She's got bruises everywhere and hurt her ribs. The chain on her glasses must have cut her face, because it looks like Zorro whipped her (my mom's words, not mine.) As for the car, the whole front is pushed in and the headlights are smashed.
'Olly was hungry when they got out of the hospital, so my mom and my aunt Betty took her to the Union Chowder House for dinner. That's all I know right now.
