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

recent strips of tape must have lost their hold. I usually have to re-tape every two weeks or so. I ask Grandma to hand me the roll that I keep on the handbrake.
    As I straighten and fasten the dented licence plate, my delicately positive mood disintegrates. With Grandma watching, this act makes me feel much more foolish and unsophisticated than it usually does. And realizing this, that I usually don’t feel any remorse or embarrassment over continuously taping my front plate, fills me with a deep self-directed sourness.
    But our endeavour is official now. It’s no longer speculative. It’s real. It’s happening. Grandma’s sitting in my car. I’ve swung her door shut. Even while I drove to her house, part of me still didn’t believe our trip would actually happen. Maybe I’d just pick her up and she’d tell me she’d decided it’d be best not to go away for so long, and we’d go out for a nice lunch and that would be that. Then I could go home to my apartment, to my slippers. The most difficult thing for me might be having constant company for five days, the responsibility to make conversation with another person, to make meals for another person, an older person. I suppose I can cope. I’m hoping she can.
    The neighbour is well down the street when Grandma confirms with a smile and nod that both her feet are inside, and I swing her door closed.
    For a moment I stand back and look at my old car with my old Grandma encased inside. “So cozy,” she says again from within.
    1:39 p.m.
    SO FAR, SO good. Our trip is off to a fine start. There have been no significant mishaps. My mood is sweetening.
    Granted, we’ve yet to make it out of Ottawa. In fact, we’re just out of Grandma’s neighbourhood. Like Mom predicted, we’ve stopped for something to eat. I pulled out of her driveway, made a total of three turns, drove west to the outskirts of Ottawa, and she made the foreseeable suggestion. It’s conceivable she heard my stomach growl. “I bet you’re hungry. Do you want to stop for some lunch?”
    â€œI could probably eat. But are you hungry?” I never know with old people. Their appetites seem constantly uncertain.
    â€œUp to you, dear.”
    â€œI’m easy, I can always eat. This is your trip. What do you think?”
    â€œI’m happy to stop — if that’s what you want.”
    â€œWell, are you hungry, Grandma?”
    â€œOh, sure. I could be. And if you’re hungry, then we should stop.”
    â€œHow about this place?” I point at a pan-Asian restaurant to our right. I know Grandma loves Vietnamese food. She nods and grins. She’s holding her purse on her lap with both hands.
    There’s no parking in front so Grandma directs me to the back through a narrow alley. She’s been here before. There’s only one other car in the spacious rear lot. With plenty of suitable spots to select from, I coast bafflingly over to the far south side and park beside a green dumpster that smells foul. Grandma has about two feet of space to exit the car.
    â€œYou’re a good parker,” she comments sincerely after her escape. “It’s so straight, and right between the lines.”
    We stand outside the restaurant, trying to decide if it’s too cold for the patio. Grandma comments on the overcast sky. She thinks we could use the rain. She thinks farmers need it for their crops. I tell her it’s not supposed to rain. I think the clouds will pass. Regardless, the breeze has teeth, and I’m shivering in my cotton T-shirt. I wish I had a woollen shawl, too. She scans my protruding goosebumps.
    â€œOkay,” she says, “let’s go inside.”
    Once inside, Grandma insists I choose our table. Isn’t she worried I’ll pick the one beside the garbage can? I am.
    I think about putting the question back to her. I’m certain she’ll just deflect it back on me.