"I do, Gran." He remembers her, albeit dimly. He was barely nine when she died.
"Of course — of course you remember your mother. It's a terrible thing for a mother to live longer than her daughter."
His Gran says this every year. Art still hasn't figured out how to respond to it. Time for another stab at it. "I'm glad you're still here, Gran."
Wrong thing. Gran is sobbing now. Art drops his eyes from Linda's and looks at the crazy weft and woof of the faded old Oriental rug. "Oh, Gran," he says. "I'm sorry."
In truth, Art has mourned and buried his mother. He was raised just fine by his Gran, and when he remembers his mother, he is more sad about not being sad than sad about her.
"I'm an old lady, you know that. You'll remember me when I go, won't you Art?"
This, too, is a ritual question that Art can't answer well enough no matter how he practices. "Of course, Gran. But you'll be around for a good while yet!"
"When are you coming back to Toronto?" He'd ducked the question before, but Gran's a master of circling back and upping the ante. *Now that we've established my imminent demise…*
"Soon as I can, Gran. Maybe when I finish this contract. September, maybe."
"You'll stay here? I can take the sofa. When do you think you'll arrive? My friends all want to see you again. You remember Mrs. Tomkins? You used to play with her daughter Alice. Alice is single, you know. She has a good job, too — working at an insurance company. Maybe she can get you a better health plan."