ENTRY 5:
[ MAGGIE AND LEWIS' CASKET ]
DEAR YOU,
Lewis, my grandmother's dog, died three hours after she did.
I was seven then, or I could have been six, I'm not sure. What I do know is that the weather was cool in my grandmother's house that afternoon, even though it was hot and humid outside. I listened to the slight of hum of my grandmother's air conditioner, and the conversation in the room. My mother didn't want me to play outside that day, she made me sit in the living-room, beside her. I watched as she bit her nails down to the numb, and her leg bobbed.
She looked so scared—I hadn't see her so scared, not even when he sharpened his teeth against the metal forks, or scrapped his nail against the wall. Not even when she found him on the floor, choking to death. She hadn't even been scared when the big bad monster crawled from beneath my bed, and into hers. She looked so frightened now.
It was a mystery to me.
I never understood why everyone cried when the doctor came out of my grandmother's room, with those apologetic eyes and plastic frown.
She was dead.
It happens, death happens.
But I cried, I cried tears not for myself but for my mother. She would have wanted me to cry, I supposed. My grandmother would have wanted me to feel something. So I did. I cried and cried, until my mother had stopped. I stopped when her eyes dried and she couldn't cry anymore. I was glade, I couldn't have continued much longer. She tried to touch me, tried to hold me. I watched as her hands opened, arms wide and waiting—but she wouldn't, I wouldn't let her.
I stood perfectly still, as still as stone.
She knew what she did to me, knew what she had done. I wouldn't let her hold me, no matter what. So she didn't.
She cried harder.
She apologized again and again; for me, for my grandmother, for everything. She apologized to God for the sins she'd committed.
I said nothing.
That day, my mother and her sister, Auntie Mini, spent the day making calls.
They cried, they held each other.
I didn't know why, but they did.
She told me to play nice with Lewis; to pet him, to hold him, to make sure he was okay. She said not to pick at him, to poke him with sticks, or nudge him with my foot, like I used to. I asked her why, because Lewis was a bad dog and bad dogs are bad. But she got on her knees, hands hovering over my shoulder—never touching, never touching me—and spoke slowly, with her voice raspy and soft.
Lewis will be sad, she said, sniffling. He loved grandma, too. Now that's she's gone—now that's she's...she's... gone. He'll—he'll be sad, too. Just like me and you, sweet pea. Do you understand?
Lewis'll miss grandma, too? I asked.
Yes, she agreed. He'll miss her, too.
But Lewis was just a dog; a tiny Pomeranian with golden fur, pointy ears, and a bright pink tongue that always wiggled out between his sharp, pointed teeth. Lewis was a mean dog; he snipped at little girls that passed by the house, and yapped all day long. Grandma said that he was protective.
But I thought he was evil.
He was an evil dog.
I didn't mean to do it, I don't think.
I thought that he'd miss grandma, I didn't want him to have to be alone.
I lived with grandma, when I told my teacher about the monster. When she saw the bruise against my temple, that had turned murky mustard-like yellow, and asked what had happened. I met a nice lady, in a nice grey room, and told her. She took me away. My grandma took me in, loved me with all of her heart.
She said she loved me everyday.
She even cried when the nice lady came back, telling me that my mother was better now. That my mother was ready.
I didn't think Grandma would want to be alone in heaven, so I thought Lewis would want to be with her. I told my mother this, when she found me—hands stained, fingertips dripping red, and my button-up shirt stained. The rock stayed in my hand, tight and clutching.
I hit him.
I hit him.
I hit him.
Again.
Again.
and Again.
I remember what I did, I knew that it was wrong. I did. I did know it. I really did. I didn't do it for me. I did it for Grandma. I did it for Grandma Maggie, because I loved her so much.
Grandma Maggie was always nice to me: held my hand in stores, bought me cookies, and brushed my hair on Sunday mornings. Grandma Maggie loved me and I loved her. I thought, in my six year old brain, that this could be the last thing I did for her. I could give her puppy to her.
She was so nice to me, I wanted to do something for her.
Lewis would be with Grandma, forever. I thought Grandma would like it, thought she'd want to take Lewis with her. I reminded my mother that she didn't like to go anywhere without Lewis. I cried, sobbing almost.
She said she understood, even though she didn't seem like she did.
Lewis and grandma Maggie shared a casket.
People whispered, they all whispered.
FROM ME.
