555-6543

Grandma was a woman with a trifecta of quirks: Quirk number one. Her well-worn, olive-green reclining chair had to be positioned directly under the skylight even though it continued to fade. I slid the chair closer to the TV once and she totally freaked out.

Quirk number two. The drinking straws on the counter were divided into groups of specific colors, and each color was in its own clear, glass flower vase. Mother made sure to ask her which color she wanted before setting a mug of coffee in front of her.

Quirk number three. There were three shelves of books in her house. In the center of the first bookshelf was a thick family bible. On either side of the cumbersome anthology, a collection of biographies and autobiographies descended like literary steps. A nine by twelve large print dictionary towered between a set of ten encyclopedias on the second shelf. And on the third shelf, The Big Book of Household Hints was flanked on both sides by mystery novels. Remove a book and you’d better put it back on the correct shelf.

She lived in the corner house, four doors down from mine, and each Friday before school I would show up at her door with a breakfast entrée, courtesy of Mother. We would eat together in her retro-style kitchen and after I left for school, Mother and Grandma would take a relaxing stroll through the neighborhood. Grandma would then settle in front of her PC to play online games, and Mother would leave a mug of coffee, a bottle of water, and her meds on a TV tray beside her. At one thirty, she’d nestle into her recliner for a nap. It has been her routine ever since I started middle school.

One afternoon, school had early dismissal due to a plumbing issue. The bus stop was on the corner in front of Grandma’s house, so I sauntered up the steps and rapped on the window. She was playing her computer games and she only stopped long enough to swivel in her office chair and wave to me. I smiled and held up my hand in acknowledgement but when she spun back around, I kind of felt dismissed. This awkward moment is what ignited our conversation the next morning.

As I unpacked the pan of baked oatmeal, Grandma prattled on about her obsession with an on-line game called Twisted, a game Grandpa often played before he passed away. It was a puzzle game and it sounded like a good pastime to keep her mind sharp. She mentioned that the game was frequently interrupted by an advertisement. She sang, “It will happen, just wait and see, call 555-6543.” I indulgently giggled.

The following Friday, while we shared a warm bread pudding, Grandma recounted a recent, recurring dream she had been having. She dreamed that Grandpa sat on a shiny piano bench, his fingers dancing on invisible piano keys. He played the tune to the jingle that was played during Twisted, his performance ending with, ‘Dun dun dun dun,’ the four descending notes played in movies as a warning to impending doom.

I suggested that her dream was a sign that she should call the phone number. She dialed right then and pressed speaker. “Hello, I’m Angela,” a female voice said. “Here’s what you could look forward to today,” it was a recording. Angela McVoice dispatched a list of actions that could be expected to happen as the day progressed. Then, in a sing song way, “It will happen, just wait and see, call 555-6543.”

I disconnected the call. Before I departed, I scratched a few of the predictions that we remembered on a notepad and left it on the counter. I had a big soccer game Saturday, so I hugged Grandma and promised I’d be over on Sunday.

***

The porch swing jounced and jangled as we sat. I was curious to know if any of the prophecies came to pass, so we read the list I compiled on Friday morning and checked off each foretold event. I remember one of the quotes I wrote down said something like, “A timely interruption will give you a much-needed reminder to pause.” Grandmother validated the statement by declaring that her medication alarm sounded in the middle of her computer game, thereby, she was reminded to pause to take her pill. I replied that she was making quite a stretch with her rationalizing. Most of our discussion went similarly, and when the silliness of our debate ended, I was sure Grandma was finished with the matter.

A few weeks later, I was setting the table when Grandma confessed that she continued calling for the daily predictions. She said that she could not get that ditty out of her head. The tune even kept her awake at night. She added the number to her short list of contacts on her speed dial. She had been setting her alarm earlier and waking at six thirty every morning to listen to an updated account of the day’s potential occurrences. It became the start of her new daily routine.

On a day in July, I offered to spend the night at her house. She was more than happy to have me there. We played cards and made popcorn. I found out that Grandma actually hated popcorn. I slept in Mother’s old room.

From previous experiences, I knew that the volume on Grandma’s alarm clock was very loud. It had woken me up out of deep sleep before. I didn’t want to be woken up at six in the morning; this was my summer vacation, and I thought Grandma could use some undisturbed rest, so I waited until she started snoring and I tiptoed to her bedroom to turn off the alarm.

In the morning, I rolled onto my back and yawned while stretching under the thin, soft sheet. I sat upright and pivoted, my legs dangling off the side of the bed, my toes barely touching my slippers. I pushed myself to my feet, sliding into my open heel scuffies and shuffled to the kitchen, but Grandmother wasn’t there. Sauntering across the linoleum floor, I rounded the corner to her bedroom.

Woefully, I stood in the hallway just outside the open door. I knew she was dead. I couldn’t hear anything except a bird outside the open window, the curtains undulating in the morning breeze. I stepped into the room and ambled toward the corpse on the bed, reaching out and clutching its hand, the hand once warm with my grandmother's life. My vision moved to the glowing numbers on the digital clock on the nightstand, they read 10:02.

After Grandma’s funeral, I lumbered to my bedroom and collapsed into my desk chair. As I reached for a book to press a funeral flower in, I nudged the computer mouse and the display on my open laptop lit up. The ‘Go Arcade’ page, I must have neglected to sign out of my account. ‘Twisted’ topped the list of games so I clicked on the logo as I thought of Grandma. A phone number on a red background took over the screen, a familiar female voice singing, “It will happen, just wait and see, call 555-6543.” A feeling of melancholy shot through me as I remembered Grandma singing the jingle and I hoped she didn’t hear the falsity in my voice when I laughed that day. I snapped the laptop shut.

As I lay in bed, a chilly draft caused me to open my eyes. I lifted my head off the pillow to search for the quilt bunched at the bottom of the mattress. My gaze locked onto Grandma’s moonlit face as she sat in the Papa San chair in the corner of my room. She shook her finger at me as if I were being naughty. She showed up the next several nights too, was she angry with me?

***

For months, I tried to convince myself that my grandmother didn't blame me for her death. Maybe Grandfather was warning her not to make that call when he came to her in her dreams. I prevented her from calling the number the morning she died. Did I kill my grandmother when I turned off the alarm?

Perhaps she was warning me rather than scolding me when she shook her finger, letting me know that calling the number was the wrong thing for me to do? I should not have stopped calling the damn number.