The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma Read Online Free PDF

it did.
    That was the worst part for her. She didn’t care about the fall or the sharp pain in her knee. She was embarrassed. She hated attention and fuss more than anything. Although she never mentioned it, the knee that likely caused the fall was still bothering her. It was probably getting worse.
    â€œI think she’s fully recovered,” said Jimmy.
    â€œThat’s what she says, but I think her knee still bothers her. You just never know, because it’s physically impossible for her mouth to form a complaint.”
    â€œAnd that’s why it’ll be such a good match, because you always complain. It’ll balance out on the trip.”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m still thinking about that tablecloth. You really have to see it.”
    But by the time we’d finished our third beer, the trip was verging on becoming an interesting possibility. It was still only a possibility. But it was the only possibility. And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, a ninety-two-year-old travelling companion was actually right in my wheelhouse. Lots of strolls, time for reading, cups of tea, ten hours of sleep per night, not too much direct sunlight, three square meals a day. It would be my kind of pace. It would be my kind of trip.
    â€œSo how are things in Kingston?” wondered Jimmy. “You doing all right these days? Anything new?”
    The past few months, I’ve experienced a growing weariness. A tedium with where I live, with how I make a living, with my routine. I’m growing tired of my city, tired of my street, the trees, the sidewalks. I’m fatigued by the gravel covering my driveway, by the droning fridge in my apartment.
    â€œKingston? Oh, well, I’m fine,” I said, picking up my empty glass, bringing it to my mouth before setting it back down. “Yeah, yeah, I mean, you know. I’m okay.”
    1:32 p.m.
    IT FEELS AS if the scene has been eerily duplicated from this morning, from my street. Grandma’s neighbours, a mother with two children, stroll by as we pack the car. They wave first and we reciprocate.
    â€œWhere are you off to?” the mother calls. “Looks like you’re going on a trip.”
    â€œYes, I am. With my grandson.”
    â€œSounds like fun,” she says. “I could use a trip.”
    One of the kids sits down on the curb. He’s holding a stick in his left hand and tracing something hieroglyphic on the pavement.
    â€œI know. I’m lucky, all right. It is going to be fun. I haven’t been on a trip in a while.”
    Lucky? Fun? I haven’t considered either of these adjectives in weeks, months. Does Grandma actually believe this, or does she just understand the socially acceptable pre-trip idiom to share with your middle-aged neighbour when your grandson is loading the car within earshot?
    I’m still staring, gape-mouthed, into the trunk. I finally look up. “Oh, sorry, Grandma.” She’s waiting at her locked door. Grandma’s even shorter than I remember. But sturdy, not frail. She’s dressed sharply, with a cardinal-red collared blouse and a soft woollen shawl around her shoulders. My cut-off jeans feel more flippant than they did an hour ago.
    I finally manoeuvre room for both of Grandma’s bags in front of the duvet and behind the cooler. I slam down the rusty trunk and walk around to her side of the car. “There you go,” I say, opening her door. “Don’t worry, it’s comfy. Well, comfier than it looks.”
    She pats my arm. “It looks cozy.”
    The door, like the car, is tired. It groans and sags on its greasy hinges. Grandma smiles, lowering herself gradually, carefully. She steadies herself on my left arm all the way onto the low-riding seat.
    That’s when I notice my front licence plate is hanging on by a single screw. The left screw is long ago lost. But, as Dad pointed out earlier, I keep it in place with grey duct tape. The most