And then while I was leaving I saw the upstairs bathroom light on. Grandmother was up, too. Did she want a morning piss, or is it something more sinister?
I found out my answer when I came home from work, although my calls around lunchtime went unanswered for the second day in a row. When I walked up the stairs I saw Grandmother's longtime, beat-up dresser, the one that she shoved all her stuff in and put her stuff on, next to the piano. I gazed at her bedroom on my way to my room; it was lit up. Grandmother probably gave up and was starting to prepare for the eviction.
When I came out to check to see if My Fucking Father brought the insulin syringes, the ones I prepared last night, to the place where she'd be living, and the place where my bed is now, My Fucking Father broke the news: "Grandmother has moved out. She's living in her new place now."
I wonder if he told Grandmother. I wonder if she knew but didn't want to tell me. Or, I wonder if they went to the clinic, got the clean bill of health he wanted, then immediately went to St. Paul, where she dumped her with her things.
The bastards. My Fucking Father and My Fucking Mother. Grandmother deserved better than this. She helped raise them, for fuck's sake. She deserved to stay as long as we could take care of her. And she certainly didn't deserve to be placed way in the fuck in St. Paul, 20 miles and 30 minutes away from us and any of her friends. But, My Fucking Father said, she'll be close to my uncle, who now lives nearby. This is the uncle who has a stroke and is bedridden, by the way.
I am just numb. I should be angry and kill them both while we're having dinner, which is now. But right now, I am just fucking numb to the pain.
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