Gramma Says

Gramma says when she was a girl there was so much water, people would fill up tubs with it and lay their bodies inside. She says they had pipes that pushed the water out above their heads and they'd let the water run all over them. There were huge, deep pits they would dig to fill up with water so people could jump in and play around—just for fun. There were pits that people didn't dig, too. Pits that had been caused by water that fell from the sky and gathered in one spot because there was so much water that it didn't have any where else to go! Gramma says she dug a hole in the ground and found water in it the next morning. You might not believe it, but I do.

Gramma isn't really my grandma: she's my great-grandma. My actual grandma died a long time ago. “You've never known grief if you haven't held your own flesh and blood in your arms and watched her wither away,” Gramma told me. She always gently pats my cheek when she says this. Mom says it's because I look like my grandma had at my age and I make Gramma remember. Mom tells me to be careful not to upset her since she's so old, but Gramma told me to be careful not to upset Mom by visiting, so I'm not really sure who's supposed to be getting upset or not. I just listen to Gramma and listen well. I listen to Mom and Dad when I'm home, but it's a different sort of listening. I listen to Gramma with my soul.

When I first began to visit, I would go home and tell Dad and Mom everything I'd heard. Mom used to get upset, so that's why I think Gramma's right. Dad grew up hearing all these stories, so he's used to them, but Mom thinks Gramma tells me made-up stories, but tells them like they're true. They had long talks about it and then one day Mom just warned me not to upset Gramma. I don't think she believes the stories, I'm not sure Dad even believes them, but they let me go listen and I'm glad.

“Stories of fish!” Mom says, rolling her eyes. “Fish!” Dad smiles and gets a far away look in his eyes.

“She says you could eat them,” he says dreamily. Mom huffs and continues making the cricket patties.

Gramma only got upset when they stopped letting us have as much water a couple years ago. I've never seen her so angry before or after. She was yelling about her daughter and her granddaughter, but she only has Dad, so I don't know what she meant. She started throwing stuff, then she grabbed her chest and fell down. I was going to hit the E-button, but Gramma made a funny noise and when I stopped to look at her, she was shaking her head. “Get...your...ma...ma,” was all she could get out. I've never run so fast, and Mom ran fast, too. I'd never, ever seen Mom run before. She says running makes you too thirsty. A couple other women were curious and came along after us. They didn't let me go in Gramma's house when we got there. Eventually, one of the women came out and told me to go home and wait for Dad to get home. I wasn't going to, but I thought about Dad walking home, all sweaty and tired, and then nobody being there. I didn't have too long to wait for him and then he and I ran to Gramma's. He went in by himself, but came back out to get me after a few minutes. We sat with her all night, all three of us.

I still went to visit Gramma, but she didn't tell me stories for a while. We just sat together in silence until I had the idea to tell her some stories. Unlike Gramma's stories, mine were all make-believe. I made up tales of birds that were like fish and could swim and fly. One of them was about a whole city made of water. People had to swim everywhere they went. Gramma laughed as well as she could at those stories. She hadn't yet told me about ducks or boats, so I didn't know any better. A few of my stories weren't about water. I told one I was especially proud of about a little girl with many brothers and sisters, a whole house full of friends. Gramma teared up at that one and hid her face, but when I said I was sorry, she told me it was alright, she was just remembering happier times.

“A story that makes you remember is a blessing, child. A blessing.” Then she laid back on her pillow and fell asleep, but it was a happy sort of sleep.

Now that Gramma feels better, we swap stories. She tells me about the Ohio Gully being full of water and being called a river. She describes trees and how a bunch of them together was the woods with little bits of moving water called streams going through them. The water was just always there, constant. In my mind the whole world seems to have been made of water once. Most of my stories take place in a world of water, and Gramma tells me there was actually a whole city built on water and people went everywhere in boats. I'm both shocked and pleased that my own mind had thought up something so close to being real. A reality far different than I've ever known, but it had been real.

Somehow, word of Gramma's heart attack got around. Maybe one of the women who'd helped Mom had told a friend who didn't know us or care. The health inspectors are not welcome, Dad and Mom make that clear while I eavesdrop. They both outright lie to them and say Gramma had just passed out from dehydration. That's common enough, especially for old people, but when the health inspectors have the chance to take someone away, they take it, even if it's a younger person who's still able to work. The women who'd helped Mom with Gramma lie, too. Everyone knows she'd had a heart attack, but they all lie to keep her with us. They stick with us. They work with Dad and Mom and I play with their kids when I'm not at Grammas. They're ours and we're theirs. The health inspectors end up lowering Gramma's water ration since she's a “burden on society.” I can't read the letter they sent her, but she spends one of my visits ranting about tyranny and human dignity. I have no idea what she's talking about, but I listen. As I always do.

We aren't supposed to share water rations, but Dad and Mom figure out how much they've reduced Gramma's water and I smuggle that much to her when I visit. They warn me about being careful, not letting anyone ever know what I'm doing. If I'm ever caught, I have to lie.

“We've always told you to tell the truth, but if somebody asks you about the water, you lie to 'em.” Mom holds my arms and looks me straight in the eye. “Don't you even think twice about it. You tell 'em that water's for you to drink while you're on your way about.”

“Yes, Mom,” I nod and look her in the eye right back. I know what will happen if we're caught sharing water rations. I'm happy to say, I haven't been stopped or questioned, and Gramma is able to get as much water as she needs. I'm careful, and I'm ready to lie through my teeth. I know the health inspectors are trying to make her weak enough to take her away and kill her. I will never let them take Gramma, no matter what.

The night after Gramma dies, I dream of trees. Gramma has tried to explain them to me, but since I haven't ever seen one, I have no idea what they really look like. But in my dream, they look how she said they would. I walk under the branches, and the air is cool. A soft breeze blows across my face and little flying bugs with colorful wings flutter by.

“They're so pretty, Gramma!” I say. In my dream, Gramma is there, but she isn't. You know how dreams are. I hear a sound like when Mom pours water into a cup, but the sound doesn't stop like it does at dinner time. Suddenly, there I am by a little stream in the woods. The water sparkles over rocks and pebbles, trickling and tinkling along. I kneel down beside the water in wonder and fascination. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. “Oh, Gramma! Oh, I see it! It's amazing!” I feel my eyes filling up with tears. I dip my hand in the water, and wake up. I cry the rest of the night for Gramma. I cry for what used to be. I cry until I can hardly breathe that somehow, some day, we can have it again.

As morning breaks, while I lie there awake and miserable, I hear distant thunder. That's not unusual; we have thunder pretty often. This time, though, it keeps on rumbling for a long time. The air starts to feel funny, almost heavy. I get up and dress. By the time I can get outside, the air is thick and almost wet enough to drink. The wind has begun to blow so hard that trash is flying down the street—from the west of all places! Others begin coming out of their houses to see what's happening. Some of them go quickly back inside, but some of the others stay outside like I do, wondering. Mom and Dad join me and we watch and wait. We've heard enough stories to know what might be happening, but the other people on the street haven't been so lucky. Hope fills me up, and from the looks on their faces, it's filling Dad and Mom, too. They're holding on to each other like the wind might blow them apart.

And then it comes: big, fat, splattering rain. It's only a few drops at first, but then it's all falling at once. A boy, bigger than me, starts to yell and cry. He doesn't understand. How can he? He's never seen water fall from the sky before. Neither have I, but I've heard that it happens. Mom and Dad start to laugh and I do, too. It's like Gramma had said. She hadn't just been telling stories: she'd been remembering. Dad and Mom kiss a long time and then Dad picks Mom up in his arms and twirls around in a circle with her. We three know what will come next. Gramma had told us. Green. Flowers. Trees. Lots of babies. No more water rations. No more health inspectors. Freedom. We run in the house and get all our bowls and pots, our government-issued water ration jugs, and put them outside. Then the three of us hold hands and dance, our hair plastered to our faces, our bare feet splashing in glorious rivulets and puddles. We laugh and sing, and our neighbors begin to join us, one house at a time.