How to Love an American Man Read Online Free Page A

they’ve signed the wills and bought this house we’re sitting in now, a one-story bungalow with a sun porch and emergency pull cords so that in case Grandma falls, she can call for help to the nursing home across the road, the one where I worked the nighttime switchboard all through high school.
    With the business that my grandpa founded, his mark is impressed all around this small town. My grandmother will never be able to escape the thought of her husband after he’s gone. He built a wing with a computer lab onto the Catholic high school from where the last of my cousins will graduate in a few months. Grandma will pass that building every day on her way downtown. Grandpa was usually her partner at Mass; I wonder how she’ll bear the solemnity of church without him. Our factory sits proud in the middle of the industrial park, the GASBARRE PRODUCTS, INC . sign shining brightly at all hours, starring the masculine green logo that Grandpa designed. I can’t even hear an English accent without pining for Adam—how will my grandma be able to continue without Grandpa after he’s passed?
    For four long days the family operates in shifts around the clock to sit with Grandpa. For his sake, I’m glad he wakes only every so often, because we’d be driving him mad with our hanging around by now—the man always valued his space. Early each morning, my mom and my aunts, my grandparents’ three daughters-in-law, arrive after a good night’s sleep fresh-faced and velour-suited, with huge breakfast casseroles and Perkins pancake takeout. They pour fizzy mimosas and brew hot coffee, and soon the aromas of bacon and syrup fill the air so strong that they travel back to the bedroom. “I’m hungry,” Grandpa says.
    I look up to my dad for guidance. “Yesterday the nurses said nothing solid from now on, right?”
    â€œYeah,” he whispers. “Poor fella.” My dad has the heart of a puppy. He puts his hand over Grandpa’s. “They said his swallowing reflex is going. Oh God, he’s hungry, and he can’t eat.” Dad wipes his own eyes with a handkerchief, and Grandpa’s eyes now pour a constant steam of tears from the creases, which Grandma’s “Stages of Death” booklet says is an indicator that the patient’s passing is imminent within hours or two days at most. “Maybe just some fresh ginger ale.”
    â€œI’ll go.” I look at Grandpa. “Grandpa.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHow ’bout some ginger ale, does that sound good?”
    â€œMm-hmm,” he mumbles. “Sounds good.”
    â€œOkay, you stay here with my dad and I’ll be right back.”
    â€œYou here, Billy?” Grandpa says. (The nurses have explained that he’s losing his vision, but he’s growing hypersensitive to light.)
    â€œYeah, Dad, I’m here,” my father says, nearing Grandpa. “Krissy’s gonna get you a drink, okay?”
    â€œYeah,” Grandpa says, although the word is barely distinguishable. “Okay.” As I walk down the hall I hear him say, “Billy?”
    â€œYeah, Dad?”
    â€œGive me a hug.”
    Grandma is back to her old flustered self when she follows me into the bedroom. “George?” she says. “I’ll be back shortly, I just have one more hand to play with the boys.”
    My gob-smacked gaze meets my father’s. Shocked, we both start laughing. Her husband is hours away from his death and she’s playing poker ? Is this what sixty years of marriage do to a woman?
    Later that night, after Grandma washes her face and combs her hair, she announces that she’d like a glass of warm milk before bed. “Who is she, the friggin’ queen of Sheba?” my mom asks. “Her hands and legs don’t work now?” But obedient as a saint, Mom knocks on her mother-in-law’s door and passes her a full glass. When Grandma checks to