Mr. Hyde Days

By Martel Sardina

Grandpa is a monster.  I don’t care what Mom says.  At first, I thought he was Dr. Jekyll because some days he would come over to play.  He’d pull me around in my wagon and tell me what kind of trees were on my street.  Around the corner, there is a magnolia tree.  I remember that name –mag-no-li-a, because the flowers on the tree are pink.  Pink is my favorite color.

Grandpa picked one off the branch so I could smell it.  It smelled kind of like the perfume Mom wears on the days when Grandpa doesn’t come.  I don’t know why Mom wears that perfume that makes her cry.  It reminds her of when Grandma and Grandpa were married and they all used to be happy.

                Grandma seems happy to me.  Maybe that’s because she’s married to Grandpa Carl now.  He always smiles.  Grandma smiles a lot.  Mom doesn’t smile enough. Grandpa doesn’t know what a smile is.  His is usually turned upside down.

                Grandpa has Dr. Jekyll days.  Then there are other days, bad days, Mr. Hyde days when Grandpa doesn’t come to play.  Those days he calls Mom on the phone. She sighs before she answers, knowing it’s a Mr. Hyde day before she says hello.

                Grandpa’s calls make Mom cry.  I don’t know what he says or what he wants her to do.  Sometimes I see her opening the newspaper to the O-bit-u-aries.  She tells Grandpa to get busy living, his name’s not in that section of the paper today.  I’m not sure why Grandpa would think his name would be there in the first place.  I asked him once.  He said I didn’t need to worry.  God doesn’t want him to die.  Grandpa said he wants to go to Heaven, to lay down to sleep and wake up there.  Then everything would be better.  I don’t know if that’s true.

                If Grandpa goes to Heaven, I won’t see him anymore.  I think I’d rather see him on a Mr. Hyde day than never again.  I’m just a kid.  It’s going to be a long time before I go to Heaven.  I’ll be old when I go to Heaven.  I don’t know if Grandpa will even recognize me then.  Will I look the same?  Will I recognize him?

                Grandpa and Mom had a fight.  Mom said Grandpa can’t come see me anymore.  Grandpa’s sick and won’t get help.  She can’t help him anymore.  She said sometimes people have to learn to do things for themselves.  If Grandpa didn’t stop coming over here, she would have to leave.

                That scared me.  I didn’t want Mom or Grandpa to leave.  Mom makes me forgive my brothers when we fight.  Why doesn’t it work the same way for grown-ups too?

                I haven’t seen Grandpa for over a year.  He’d stop Mom on the street to try to talk to her.  She doesn’t have much to say.  They can never talk quiet.  They always yell.  I wonder why they can’t get along.

                A week ago, Grandpa came over to our house.  Mom told him to leave.  But then Grandpa fell down.  He couldn’t get back up.  He couldn’t talk anymore.  Mom called 911.  She told me to stay inside.  My older brother shooed me away from the door.

                Now I’m looking at Grandpa and thinking about how he’s not Dr. Jekyll anymore.  His head is all wrapped up in bandages.  He looks like a mummy, lays there in the hospital bed and moans.  Mom told me not to be afraid.  Grandpa had something in his head.  I think she called it a tumor.  It was hard to understand what she was saying through all those tears.

                Grown-ups come into Grandpa’s room and talk in low, hushed voices trying to keep things secret from me.  They talk about the tests Grandpa’s had, about all the cords and machines he’s hooked up to.  They say something about cancer.  I don’t know what that is but I don’t think it’s anything good.

                My uncle says it smells like death in here.  I thought it smelled like the stuff Mom mops the floor with.  It also smelled like it does when my little brother needs his diaper changed.  My little brother isn’t here.  I’m not sure why I smell that smell.  I asked Mom but she said that’s something we’re not going to talk about right now.  The doctor is coming to take Grandpa’s band-aid hat off.  Maybe he’ll start looking like Grandpa again.

                Dr. Ross asks Grandpa a bunch of questions, like his name, his real name, the one I’m not allowed to call him just like I’m not allowed to call Mom, Susan, and Dad, Kevin.  I don’t get it because they’re allowed to call me Jenny.  When I get bigger I can make people call me some other name too.

                Grandpa doesn’t know where he is.  Grandpa is confused.  He starts laughing and gives silly answers to Dr. Ross’ questions.  He says it’s 1990.  Richard Nixon is the President.  That’s not right. George W. Bush is the President.  Grandpa should know that.  He voted for him.

                Mom’s worried.  Dr. Ross said taking Grandpa’s tumor out might make him say funny things for a while.  His brain is all jumbled up like that jigsaw puzzle I’ve been working on.  It will take time to put the pieces back together.  I guess that makes sense.  Grandpa’s tumor was bigger than a baseball.  I can’t imagine walking around with a baseball in my head.  I got hit in the head with a baseball once.  That hurt.  Having one inside your head must hurt too.

                Dr. Ross takes scissors out of his pocket, cuts Grandpa’s band-aid hat and takes it off.  Now I know who Grandpa is…Frankenstein.  Grandpa has fifty-seven staples in his head.  I wonder how Dr. Ross got the staples in. The stapler we use at school isn’t big enough for someone’s head to fit inside.  If I ask, Mom will tell me to be quiet. 

Dr. Ross touches the side of Grandpa’s head.  His fingers sink in.  He pushes a bubble around under Grandpa’s skin.  Mom gasped.  I touched the side of my head.  It was hard.  My skin didn’t move the same way Grandpa’s did.

                Grandpa’s head looked gross and cool at the same time.  If my friends saw it they’d stare and say, “Ewww!”  I’d laugh.  It’s only like that because there is a hole in Grandpa’s head where the tumor used to be.  In time it will go back to the way it used to be.  Grandpa won’t look like Frankenstein anymore.

                We’ve visited Grandpa every day. Bags holding something that looks like water drips through plastic tubing into Grandpa’s arms. The nurses say he needs more salt or else he’ll look and talk like a zombie.

                I don’t want a monster for a grandpa anymore.

                Dr. Ross says he doesn’t know for sure when or if Grandpa will ever stop being a monster. 

I hope someday he will.