How to Love an American Man Read Online Free

sniffles. I’m trying . She doesn’t notice when I reach for her hand to walk back to the hall, so I just follow her to the guest room where they’ve set up Grandpa’s hospital bed, along the way studying her immaculate brown curls and her tiny frame. She’s not showing any signs of dementia yet, although I examine her for a change in appearance the way I did when my friend Lynne in New York told me she was six weeks pregnant.
    Grandma and Grandpa announced to the family two weeks ago, right before he took permanently to the bed, that two years ago Grandma had been diagnosed with early dementia. They decided last month, when the doctors determined that Grand-pa’s lung cancer was terminal, that it was a good time to loop us all in. They had been sick together and fulfilled a solemn pact to keep the information strictly between them for as long as possible. To my grandparents, suffering is not a noble condition. The capacity to fulfill a promise to another person, on the other hand, is. Will I ever trust someone so unshakably?
    My parents and aunts and uncles crowd the doorway as Grandma pioneers her way straight to Grandpa’s side and waves me in next to her. “George?” she calls. “Krissy’s here.”
    Not a muscle moves.
    â€œHuunn,” she sings. This is the first I’ve ever heard her call him anything other than George; suddenly she’s lighthearted and congenial in a way I’ve never seen her. “Sit down, Kris.”
    I sink carefully into the desk chair with wheels that sits at the rail of Grandpa’s bed. They’ve propped an ottoman underneath the chair. It’s upholstered with bright tapestry and regal bolts, like it was designed to sit at the foot of a queen’s throne. I presume it’s for Grandma, and I don’t feel familiar enough with this situation yet to rest my feet there in comfort. I have to go through the initiation into this horrible setting that all the rest of the family knows as their new reality.
    â€œHun, there’s a granddaughter standing here. She just arrived from Italy and wants to say hello.” She urges me. “Go ahead.”
    I search for something normal to say. “Hi, Grandpa.” I can’t force out anything else. As I scan his body, I observe that everything from his ribs down is tucked in tight between the sheets. I focus on Grandpa’s skinny hand and run a single finger down his tendons, defined as the prongs of a fork. My God, where has he disappeared to? He’s lost twenty pounds and gained thirty years since three weeks ago when we hugged goodbye at New Year’s. The muscles in my throat strain open, and a tear races down my cheek and lands fat on my hand. I want to collapse and wail.
    â€œWe’ll leave you two alone.” Grandma and the rest of the gang, watching from the doorway, disappear down the hall.
    I scan Grandpa, his gaunt cheeks and olive skin washed out to a surrendering gray. I admire his stillness, his vulnerability. Here he is, yet again, even more tender than I’d ever perceived him before. Suddenly his eyes open, and widen, and he lets out a relieved sigh. You’re here ! he wants to say.
    â€œHi,” I coo softly, as though he’s a waking baby. I scoot to the edge of the chair, and he smiles. “I’m here.” He sighs again, then smiles, then rests his head slowly back into the pillow. My throat, this pressure. I pull the St. Christopher medal that I always wear to travel from around my neck and loop it around the bar of his bed. Certainly this voyage he’s on is much more demanding than mine just was.
    Laughter explodes from the living room, punctuated by Grandma’s girlish giggle. Our family has turned this bedside vigil into a cocktail-slumber party. I understand why. Grandpa wants us to take care of Grandma and help her carry on as uninterrupted as possible. The two of them have made all the arrangements;