There's A Stranger In My House

Grandmother was at it again last night, and it was worse than it was before. She once again wanted to find her checkbooks, the ones that I found in her purse, twice. I thought she was OK when she went up to my bedroom door and immediately remembered they were in her purse.

But later, during dinner, she confronted me not about her checkbooks but about her ATM card. I was tired and I wanted to see how she would react if I didn't just drop everything and help her find it, so I told her I didn't have it and would help her look for it as soon as I was done eating.

She basically became someone -- something -- else entirely. She was muttering to herself at the dinner table, talking about where her money went, how she put it somewhere and now she can't find it, and, worst of all, accusing me of taking it. It was different last night. Before, she only asked if I took it. With her increasing emotion at the dinner table, I truly think she believes I took it.

Grandmother looked possessed. Her eyes were wide and her body language was as in control as I had ever seen it. She gave off the impression that she was alert and under control, but when she opened her mouth she was anything but. The indignation on her face when she was staring at me was something I have never seen from her before. She's been taken over by a monster.

It was then that she decided she didn't want to eat anymore; something about being too pissed off to finish her soup. That was when Father stepped in and asked her what was the matter.

"It's nothing," Grandmother said. She always said that to me when I asked her if everything was alright. I used to believe her. No more.

But she continued, "I can't find my checkbook and ATM card." And Father saw a replay of helping her find it last week. He tried helping her mentally retrace her steps, but she wouldn't get off accusing me of stealing them. She then complained that living here made her crazy, and Father used that to try and convince her to leave. But she just got up and went to her bedroom, supposedly to rest.

No, not to rest. It's taking me a long time to eat my huge bowl of soup nowadays, and that meant Grandmother came out to confront me to more times about her goddamn ATM card. First she threw down the cards she could find in front of me at the dinner table, to which I could only say, again, "I didn't take your card." Then, while we were cleaning up, she waddled back out to the dining room, listlessly. Father asked her if she was OK, to which she replied that her head hurt and, finally, she turned my way and asked, "Come one, where's my card."

Father, washing the dishes from the sink, finally had enough: "HE DOESN'T HAVE YOUR CARD, YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!!!" Grandmother always shirks from his yelling, and so she just waddled back to her room, muttering more stuff about her money.

I couldn't deal. All I wanted to do was head out to see the MLS Cup. But Father knew he had to try and nip this in the bud once again, so after he was done cleaning the dishes he marched into Grandmother's bedroom and helped her find the things that probably were in front of her all along, yelling at her every second of the way. What I caught was this:

"He takes care of you, and now you think he steals from you?!"

"My head hurts."

"Our heads hurt because you complain so much!"

And then, not a peep from Grandmother's room. I came out to ask Father if he found her ATM card. He said it was in her purse, in one of the clear windows. Of course.

---

I no longer look forward to going home. Ever since her dementia (and it has to be dementia) worsened after Daylight Saving Time ended, she has been replaced by this money-grubbing, paranoid demon. I don't know if I'm going to have Good Grandmother or someone who needs help finding shit that's in front of her -- or, worse, someone who wants to kill me.

I'm serious about that. I was really scared last night that she believes I have her money. (And for the record, she has no money because she spent it all.) When I came back home I told Father my fears. He told me to lock the door.

I did a couple better. I put my computer bag and bookbag in front of the door. If somehow Grandmother opened the door (that fucking thing doesn't close all the way) with a knife in her hand, maybe her stumbling over the bags will give me enough time to wake up and defend myself.

I didn't want to go to sleep early; I have to adjust my clock because I start my late-night job tonight. But I didn't want a confrontation with Grandmother, so I turned in early.

I heard a knock on the door. I ignored it. She went away.

Bitch is going to kill me, I know it.

Our relationship has changed. For good.