The Ten Best Days of My Life by Adena Halpern Page B

Sylvia! I knew it!” Grandmom laughed.
    â€œWell, he might have been, but not anymore,” Dad, uncle Morris, and Grandpop said at the same time.
    The patio erupted in laughter as I laughed from my own bed.
    This was the last night my family would ever be the same. It wasn’t anything so out of the ordinary. That’s why I’ll always remember it as being one of the best days of my life.
    Because after that, everyone started to get sick.
    It started out small. I came home one day and my mom said that Grandpop was in the hospital, but he would only be there a few days.
    Days turned into weeks and pretty soon uncle Morris had moved into our house to take care of me because my parents were always down at the hospital. I never got to visit Grandpop in the hospital. In all that time, except for when I was at school, I rarely saw anyone except uncle Morris. Never take the miracle child to a hospital where there are sick people.
    It was always the most fun when uncle Morris would serve me breakfast. He used to make French toast or pancakes. He’d play the part of the French waiter with this heavy accent and say, “Mademoiselle Dorenfield, I have taken zee liberty of adding fresh-squeezed orange juice to your breakfast this morning.”
    â€œThere’s pulp in this,” I’d act, shoving it away.
    â€œMy sincere apologies,” he’d beg. “I promise this will not happen again.”
    â€œSee that it doesn’t,” I’d mock. Then we’d burst out laughing and give each other a big hug.
    I took the biggest delight when he would flip pancakes up in the air and then right back into the pan. The best was when they fell on the floor and the five-second rule would come into effect. If uncle Morris couldn’t get the pancake within five seconds, the pancake was thrown out. If he could, he threw it out anyway, but it was fun counting.
    That didn’t happen this time though. When Grandpop was in the hospital, uncle Morris served me cold cereal and left the room.
    Finally, Grandpop came home to his house, and I got to go visit. He was much thinner than he had been, and Grandmom made him stay in bed all the time. He gave me a hug and I tried to sit on his bed with him, but Grandmom wouldn’t let me. All I remember is her propping up his pillows all the time and her saying to everyone, “He needs his rest, leave him be.” That was also when I noticed the patch on her arm. “What’s that for?” I asked her. “Did you hurt yourself?”
    â€œIt’s just medicine for me,” she said. “It helps me so I can take care of Grandpop.”
    It was during this time that I got used to hearing the phone ring in the middle of the night. Sometimes it got to be such a common thing that I would just sleep right through it, but that wasn’t often. The phone would ring and I would wake up. I’d see my parents’ bedroom light shine from my door. I could hear the rumblings of my parents getting dressed. I’d get out of my bed and go to their door.
    â€œIs Grandpop all right?” I’d ask them.
    â€œHe’s fine. Go back to bed, sweetheart. Uncle Morris is here if you need him.”
    So I did.
    I’d find out later that it was something like Grandpop’s temperature getting too high or that he was unable to breathe and an ambulance had to come pick him up. I wouldn’t find out, though, until years later when it came up in conversation with my parents.
    This became routine for the next six months or so.
    I rarely saw Grandmom anymore. I finally said one day, “I want to see Grandmom,” so they took me over to her house. She was lying in bed with the patch on her arm when we got there, and she let me get into bed with her.
    â€œLook at your teeth,” she said. “Such beautiful teeth. Do me a favor, always take care of your teeth because dentures are a bitch.”
    â€œMom!” my own mother said,