Thank You Grandpa

“Goodness,” Rachel said watching his fingers work the dirt. She stared in wonder at the wriggling digits as they pawed and clawed and pushed and prodded through the rich topsoil of the family cemetery. “I haven’t seen you this energetic in years. Thank you, Grandpa,” she whispered.

The sight took her mind back twenty years. She was just six years old on that hot August day, exploring the woods around her grandparents’ farm in Inwood, Indiana, playing in the shallow creek and discovering such wonders as crawdads and tadpoles when she heard Grandma call. Something was wrong. The tone was different from when they called her for dinner, this sounded…scared.

Scrambling up the hill, her sneakers slipping in the loose dirt, stumbling and clawing with her hands she called out, “Here I am, Grandma!” Running toward the house, wiping her hands on her overalls she could barely see her grandmother through the tall field grass.

Strange, how her mind could now only recall snippets of the conversation with Grandma. An “accident,” she remembered her grandmother calling it. “Serious—chainsaw—your father.”

What she did remember vividly was the burial. There was the preacher, her grandparents, and the gravedigger. The pine casket rested in the open grave and at the conclusion of the service, her grandfather, looking handsome in his new Sears suit, picked up a clump of dirt, crumbled it and let the dirt fall onto the casket. “Let’s go,” he told her, taking her hand.

That night a terrible thunderstorm rolled through the Ohio River valley. She wasn’t sure if it was the fury of the storm or the thoughts of her father, cold in the ground, trying to dig his way out that prevented her from sleeping. It didn’t matter. She slipped into her grandparents’ room, curled up on the floor at the foot of their bed and fell asleep.

When she awoke, she was in the bed, wrapped in the bedsheet her grandparents used as a blanket during the summer months. Sunlight filled the room and she could hear her grandmother downstairs. She learned later that her grandfather had found her on the floor and put her into the bed. So it was that for the next two years the only place she felt comfortable enough to sleep was her grandparents’ bed. Then Grandma died.

She was buried next to Rachel’s father on an inappropriately beautiful summer day. They stayed at the gravesite until it was completely filled and before leaving, her grandfather planted daisies on either side of the headstone, grooming the dirt with his hands.

From that day forward it was just the two of them. Mom, a forbidden subject, had disappeared before Rachel turned one, so it was Grandpa who raised her through the transformation from little girl to young woman. “Thank you, Grandpa.”

His muffled response brought her back to the present. “Oh, sorry. Just reminiscing,” she explained. His fingers stopped, resting in the dirt. “Tired? I don’t imagine they let you work in those well-manicured gardens at the home. Pity. I remember how much you enjoyed working with your hands.”

They sat in silence, Rachel lighting a cigarette and enjoying the warmth of the sun on this late spring day. “I should have come for you sooner,” she said softly. “That group home was no place for you.” He was still and she wondered what he might be thinking.

Looking at the headstones she was struck by how faded her memories were of her father and grandmother and by the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about her Aunt Ellen, who died at age twelve and whom no one ever spoke.

Taking another draw on her cigarette she extinguished it against the headstone and dropped it in her pocket. “It’s nice up here, I see why you picked this spot.” Kneeling, she reached out, gently touching his fingers. They wriggled at her touch and she smiled.

“It must have been tough for you after Grandma died,” she acknowledged, “trying to raise me by yourself while dealing with the loss of your wife and son, so recently departed.” She shook her head. “The county wanted to take me away but they underestimated you. They didn’t know the strength of your determination, didn’t understand you had a plan.”

She sat back on her legs struggling to keep her emotions under control. “You made me who I am; taught me so much and you probably don’t even realize it. Thank you, Grandpa.”

Spying a four-leaf clover she plucked it, twirling it between her forefinger and thumb, admiring it. “My lucky day,” she said, “finding you after ten years. Oh don’t worry,” she said noticing his fingers stiffen, “you’ll never go back there. Not after all the trouble I went through to spring you,” she chuckled.

“Institutions are for the helpless and the insane,” she said a smile frozen on her face, “and you’re not helpless and I’m not insane.” She stood and stared down at him. “But you know that. You knew it when you were molesting me, but that didn’t stop you from telling people I was. All part of your plan,” Rachel said pacing now. “And it worked beautifully. They would have put me away had I not runaway,” she laughed.

“She’s troubled,” people said, “and the abuse self-inflicted. Who would ever suspect you, the kindly grandfather? Ah, you played the part so well.” She shook her head smiling. “I applaud you,” she said clapping her hands together. “Brilliant acting; another lesson you unknowingly taught me. Thank you, Grandpa.”

Peering at the rigid fingers poking through the grave she toed them—still no movement. “Then it’s done.” Sitting she relit her cigarette, took a long drag, held it and finally exhaled. “What a day,” she said looking at the sky. “So much work but so worth it. When you first realized who I was—the look on your face—priceless!” She ground out the tip of the cigarette against his fingers.

“Thank you, Grandpa.”