by Megan Manley
The lake is calm this evening. Sweet corn on the barbeque and cheeseburgers are the centrepiece of our patio table. It’s cool here at the cottage, a sign we will soon return to the city for our September routines.
Grandma and Grandpa have come over for dinner. I don’t see them often. Their cottage is next door but they keep to themselves. It’s much different from a few years ago when Grandma would host grand tea parties for me and my toys, and Grandpa would piece together puzzles that stretched across the dining room table. Those days were spent in bathing suits and covered in sunscreen, and my cousins and I pretended to be mermaids and had swimming races. Grandpa helped us string fishing rods though we always did better with nets. Those days were different. I had just turned thirteen.
Grandma looks tired. The woman who used to chat away from morning till’ night is mostly silent. Dark circles under her eyes are signs of restless nights and struggles of the past summer. She occasionally asks about our plans for the school year but her mind is somewhere else. Grandpa is also quiet. In previous summers he talked about business and politics, but this summer is different. He no longer knows our names.
When the corn is ready, my brother and I grab cobs and roll them in the butter dish on the table. The block of butter turns into a melted halfpipe. We laugh and load our corn with salt.
“Why would you do that?” Grandpa asks in a stern voice.
My brother and I freeze in our seats. Grandpa sounds angry. At times I have wished that we could make him angry or proud so he’d remember who we are, but he looks at us as if we are strangers. After a few moments of silence, he goes back to eating his salad. No, he says, he doesn’t want any corn.
Sometimes Grandpa doesn’t eat. Sometimes he fights with Grandma and asks who she is or where they are. Sometimes he gets so upset that he starts fights and throws books on the floor. My dad says Grandpa can’t read anymore.
After we finish dinner, my dad puts on an old record that we can hear from the patio. My mom serves ice cream and the grown-ups talk about painting the boathouse.
Then Grandpa says, “Wait. Be quiet.”
Everyone on the patio looks at him. Grandma holds his arm.
“I know this song,” he says. Grandpa sways his shoulders back and forth. “This was my favourite song as a child.” Then, he starts singing. Grandpa sings and sings. He smiles and snaps his fingers. He taps his foot against the wooden floor. He tells us about his first record player and how he listened to this song over and over.
When the song stops Grandpa’s smile fades. He picks up his spoon and continues eating his ice cream. The grown-ups talk about the colour of the boathouse and my brother and I help clear the table. The moon rises over the horizon and the crickets chirp their tune.
Grandma looks out over the lake and smiles.