David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

Even Sima, the pockmarked nurse with the scowling face, started to like him and sang his praises to Mama and Papa: he is the brightest most helpful child she has ever seen, not like other children, who have no use for the sick and elderly. He’s an old-fashioned boy, she said, and Aron noticed Mama watching her face so she’d know how to imitate her later at home. Even the doctors spoke highly of him, and he loved to accompany them on their rounds before supper, tagging modestly along, waiting behind the hospital curtains, where he could hear the soothing hum of the long words they used to describe symptoms and medicines and treatments; how awesome death is, sending out a thousand dread diseases like long, thin arms to embrace humanity, and maybe every illness is different somehow from the same illness when another person has it, maybe doctors are wrong to call them by the same name, who knows, because how can you compare. From his hiding place behind the curtain he peeked at the doctors and nurses around the bed. All he could see of the groaning patient was his long, crooked fingers, speckled brown, gripping the mattress, hanging on to it for dear life; maybe the man had never even heard of the disease he was about to die of, maybe he’d lived his life contentedly, in ignorance of the new disease that would come into the world, especially for him, and Aron wanted to escape, it wasn’t right to peek, those fingers were very disturbing, the way they clutched the mattress like they would never let go, refusing to acknowledge what even Aron knew, that a week agosomeone else had been lying there, and a week from now this man too would be gone, and suddenly he heard a gasp, and the doctors’ coats began to flutter as though a breeze were blowing on them, and the man sat up with a supreme effort, and for a minute his face was reflected in the window, hollow and bony like the skull of a prophet or an animal, vouchsafed a glimpse of the eternal. And now the haggard eyes saw Aron hiding, and gaped at him with the toothless mouth, and Aron was petrified: I’ve had it, he found me out and he’ll expose me so everyone will know — he froze at the idea — but that’s ridiculous, what could they do, and suddenly the head turned and vanished. Only the groans persisted. Aron drew the curtain and quickly fled through the ward, annoyed with the patients for lying on their beds and squawking at the nurses, never realizing that death was on its way, their own terrible death, and what did they complain about, that their slippers were too tight, that they didn’t get a boiled egg for supper; but why is he trembling. Death, death, he whispered to himself to see if anything would happen, if anyone would peek out at him to see who was calling; nothing happened, of course, and yet he trembled inwardly as he said it again, as he whispered “Death” behind his hand, so they wouldn’t see him and be suspicious, who wouldn’t, it’s all in your mind, maybe this was what his bar mitzvah rabbi had sensed about him, and what if you were, say, a secret agent sent by Death to prepare humanity for its sorrows. “Is that you again?” He was startled by an amiable old doctor with a croaking voice, the one who told the family that Grandma could be cured simply by draining the blood from her brain. “A minor surgical procedure,” he said, but Mama and Papa weren’t about to entrust Grandma to the likes of him. “Know what I think, boychik, I think that after hanging around us doctors so long, you too may wind up, God forbid, a doctor.” And the nurses joked with him and asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, but they said it in the false-impression voice, one of them even patted his head, so he answered in his corrective tone: “I’m still debating whether to become a brain surgeon or a classical guitarist,” hoping that would set them straight, but as they walked away, amazed at his maturity, he felt a pang of regret, maybe he should have been a little more direct about their error, so they’d understand, why not, they were used to problems, that was their job, after all.

He wanted to share his experiences with Gideon: once on their wayhome from school he tried to describe the special emotion he felt when the family was together at Grandma’s bedside, and how rewarding it was, truly rewarding, to care for her down to the smallest details, like her meals and medicines and laundry, even her evacuation, that’s what they called it now, and the hospital generally — the wards and corridors and intercoms, and the charts and the daily roster, with everything so neat and orderly and serious, said Aron, knowing that the word “orderly” would grab Gideon’s attention, and you get a sense that everything in life and in the hospital and in the body is logically planned, like math, like an equation, and when you put the details together you see the larger picture, you start to understand what it’s all about. Gideon was quiet a moment, and then said with a sideways glance that personally he wouldn’t want to be involved with things like that for so many hours a day, and Aron answered, vaguely superior, Sure, oh naturally. And then he said, “Okay, bye, see you tomorrow, they’re waiting for me,” and just like that he walked away. Who cares about Gideon. Who cares about Zacky. Who cares that spring is bursting out with a warmth and a golden light that made everyone in class seem a little tipsy, and the girls were wearing their minis, those new short dresses that let you see practically everything, and Zacky invented a special mirror tied to his sandal with a rubber band, you stick your foot out in front of a girl, that’s the kind of thing he’s good at, and the girls haven’t caught on yet, it’s the boys’ secret, they walk up and burst out laughing, it’s pathetic, while here he is, at the center of a battlefield, striving against suffering and death, shoulder to shoulder with Papa and Mama and Yochi, marching to a single drum, with grim determination and nerves of steel.

Their devotion to Grandma was simply incredible, how quickly they had grown accustomed to the changes and disruptions she brought into their lives: all their leisure was spent at Grandma’s bedside, observing her expressions, guessing her unspoken wishes, rolling her over to prevent bedsores, spoon-feeding her water when she had the hiccups, and thinking up a thousand and one ways to make her take another bite of egg, another sip of tea … Never a grumble or word of complaint, as they put everything else aside and concentrated on Grandma, though they didn’t deceive themselves, they knew exactly what lay in store, when it comes it comes, the will of heaven, it was a miracle she’d lasted this long, but they treated her with so much dignity, their every movementappropriate and precise, that Aron was proud to take part in this ancient rite of leading Grandma Lilly out of the family and into the outstretched arms of Death.

Only once was the rite spoiled for him: he was alone at home with Mama when suddenly she rushed to his side. What happened, what did I do? And then she grabbed him and hugged him so hard she nearly cracked his bones. She never behaved like that unless he was sick. With trembling fingers she held his chin and he saw that her eyes were full of tears. He was frightened. Mama, who didn’t let anyone see her cry, was biting her lip to control herself, and suddenly she started sobbing: For God’s sake, haven’t we paid our debts with interest on the interest; oh please, let the troubles with Mamchu make amends so from now on, everything will turn out, and everything … Aron buried his face in Mama’s hand, alarmed at the urgency in her voice, because it wasn’t him she was talking to; she gripped his face with flinty fingers, tilting it reproachfully, as though exhibiting a piece of evidence to a judge, and her sadness made him want to be even smaller and he was scared suddenly that he, a child, had been privy to the procedure, the mysterious balancing of the family accounts with Fate.