Independence

By Susan Wells Bennett

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Published by

Susan Wells Bennett on Smashwords

Independence

Copyright © 2006 by Susan Wells Bennett

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Author’s Note

Originally published as part of a regional magazine in 2007, the short prize-winning essay below is a true account of an event that has shaped my life.

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When I arrived at my mother’s house late that night, my grandfather was already asleep. According to my mother, he’d had a debilitating stroke while he and my parents were on vacation together, a journey that had taken him back to visit his older brother. I could just make out his form’s shadow in the guest bedroom. Unable to picture him as incapacitated, I chose to believe he would be fine and launched into a rapturous description of the date from which I had just returned. Mom listened and laughed with me, her good humor reassuring me that everything was normal.

Early the next morning, when I heard the door to his room open and saw the light on in the bathroom, I nearly called out to him. Afraid I’d wake the rest of the house, I stayed quiet and soon drifted back into my dreams.

A few hours later, my mother informed me that he would have to live with her and my father from now on.

“He won’t like that, Mom. He doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone.” Having shared his home for the last two years – not as a caretaker but as a roommate – I knew he prided himself on his independence.

“He won’t be a burden. He’s my father, for goodness sake. I’m supposed to take care of him!” She told me he had begged her to let him go home the night before, but, deciding that he couldn’t care for himself, she had refused to allow him to leave. “Can’t Susan help me?” he had asked. No, she had answered him and I wasn’t there to disagree.

His relationship with my mother had always been strained – the understandable result of his alcoholism. While he had been sober more than thirty years, she had never fully forgiven him for her childhood, sixteen years of emotional and physical abuse that she could not forget. He was not the same man who raised her, though. He had been a violent drunk, doling out blunt brutality; he was now a talented photographer, creating visual artistry. Where he once spewed streams of profanity, he now recited poetry by rote.

That morning, sitting on her bed, I told her I wanted to take him home. He had rescued me once, during an ugly divorce; now, it was my turn to return the favor. “If we can’t manage, then we’ll talk about what his other options are.”

“That’s just not practical. You have your own life to lead. You’ve just started dating again. You shouldn’t be bogged down by an invalid.”

My mind refused to make the connection between my grandfather and the word invalid. He could walk circles around me – invalids don’t walk. He could out-think me in any debate – invalids don’t talk. He had a razor-sharp wit that could cut to the bone – invalids don’t smirk. I couldn’t think of a response. My eyes drifting toward the clock, I said, “It’s nearly nine. Shouldn’t we be getting breakfast ready?”

She agreed, asking my father to help my grandfather out of bed. I remember the rap-rap-rap on the guestroom door. “John?” I heard my father call out as he entered the room.

Deep in my soul, I knew what was coming next.

“John!” My father, dashing to the kitchen and grabbing a knife to cut the rope that had strangled the life from my grandfather hours before, yelled, “Call 9-1-1!” I think my mother was screaming, though the voice I still hear echoing in my memory could have been my own.

My grandfather had told me. He had told me that he wouldn’t be around forever. He had told me that he wouldn’t be a burden. Suicide, he had told me, was better.