I was at the bookstore when I finally returned My Fucking Father's call at the downtown bookstore about a half-hour after my cell said he called. I thought/assumed he wanted to know when I was coming home (I was lying when I told him I was working). He wanted to know, and he started off the conversation by asking that. But that bastard just softened me up for what he really wanted: "Can you take Grandmother to the doctor for her DB shot?"
I knew that he meant "TB" shot -- tuberculosis. Uh-oh. You know, I knew in the back of my mind that my parents were still working on throwing her out of the house. But there hasn't been any tension -- well, outright tension -- since the huge blowup last Tuesday. And maybe the relative quiet and peace in the house led me to think that maybe things would be OK. Me and my delusional mind just cannot take any adversity.
At dinner My Fucking Father shoved his phone in my face. He had just called, I guess, the coordinator of the place they're throwing her into. She was the one who told me point blank that Grandmother is "moving in" on Tuesday. No. Please, no.
I don't know if it's anything like any of the other places Grandmother was forced to visit, but My Fucking Father said over the phone that it comes with huge spaces and as much help (meals, administering medicine) as needed. He also says it costs five grand a month, like that's supposed to be so impressive that that is the final thing that'll get Grandmother to move. Spending lavish amounts of money isn't the fucking issue.
The way I see it there are three main problems:
- It's not furnished. My Fucking Father and the coordinator's plan is to bring all the furniture in the following weekend. But I'm busy that Saturday!
- It's in St. Paul, way across the river and far enough that it'll be a deterrent for me to visit Grandmother frequently and for them to visit at all.
- She's leaving.
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, she's a goner come Tuesday. God fucking damn. ...
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