LIMA
RON AWOKE to soft knocking sounds, on his bedroom door.
He glanced around his room, uncertain where he was for a half-second. The curved, cherry-hued wood of the bedstead was unfamiliar to him, not to mention the bright blue wall of his expanded bedroom. Letting out a short breath Ron sat up, swinging his legs over the side. The air of the room smelled cleaner now, despite the faint new paint smell hovering in the background. Knocking came again at Ron's bedroom door.
"Yeah?" he hazarded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"It's Megan," came a muted voice.
Ron grinned.
"Didn't think it was the Viet Kong," he returned with humor. He could imagine his granddaughter smiling on the other side of the door. "You OK?"
"Yes. I was just wondering if... I could hear Mr. Atkins play Chopin, again."
Ron blinked and looked at the clock. 6:05 am. His smile grew.
"Maybe I'm the genius," he thought. He cleared his throat. "Yeah... sure. Thanks fer askin' first. Be out there in a minute."
"Okay," his granddaughter's voice told him. He heard small steps move away from his door, heading down the hall towards the kitchen.
Standing, Ron carefully stretched his back. The last few days of work still made itself felt in his joints and muscles. As he felt the sides of his torso, however, he noted a bit less flab over the ribs.
"Gotta get back in the pool," he mused aloud, shuffling towards his bathroom. Once a week was his habit to hit the local YMCA for a few laps in their Olympic-sized outdoor pool. The combined military and senior discount made the membership more than affordable. As he showered, Ron wondered if he'd be able to bring Megan along with him. Could she even swim? If so, would she have enough energy to do laps? Did she even know how to swim? Grunting he continued to wash, contemplating the issue further.
"She could float on her back in the next lane," he thought, rinsing off. "That should be easy enough." He'd seen advanced-age seniors—from time to time—in classes to keep in shape, utilizing that same technique to coax weakened muscles into better operation. "She can't stay inside all day, sleeping, eating and listening to Chet."
A smile crossed Ron's face as he shut the water off. He simply couldn't believe that his old Martin had captivated his granddaughter's advanced mind to such an extent... enough to harken her from slumber and hover around his door in the wee hours of the morning. He wondered how long she'd stood there before scaring up the courage to knock. Drying off with a towel, Ron looked around the still-unfamiliar space for his jeans.
A sound like pouring water met him as he neared the kitchen some minutes later. Pausing by the open door, Ron spied Megan standing on a dining chair, pouring water into the reservoir of his coffee maker. He smiled as she got down, slowly, from the chair to retrieve a dishtowel from a drawer. She got back up on the chair to wipe up spilled drops.
Ron cleared his throat.
"Mornin'," he greeted. His granddaughter's gray eyes lifted to his; she bit her lip a little before returning her attention back to the coffeemaker.
"I'm sorry if I woke you," she said apologetically. "I'm not usually up that early." Ron gave her a half smile.
"I'll let it go, this time," he joked. "Don't worry about it. Early risin's part of my DNA." He got out a plastic food storage container from his new pantry as he spoke. "It's encouragin' that the music's in already your head, where you're that interested in it."
Megan watched as her grandfather opened the container; it was half-full of ground coffee. The heady scent of the grinds permeated the room. "Can't go wrong likin' music, or wantin' to play it," her grandfather continued. "You might even want to write your own, someday." Megan felt strangely comforted by her grandfather's words, and more than eager to begin this musical adventure. She'd dreamed of the 'water-drop' notes all night; they'd played sweetly in her head, spinning around and dancing along meandering lines, one that seemed to have no end. She'd awoken while it was still dark-just after five in the morning—with a strong desire to hear music permeating her entire being. She's showered and dressed with something close to 'vigor' in her limbs, an odd sensation in of itself. As she watched her grandfather finish making the coffee and plug the machine, she pulled on the back edge of anticipation, forcing herself to be patient.
"I can't really explain it," she said, suddenly. "But I must play the music. I must... hear it, at least."
Ron studied her face as she spoke.
"I won't pretend I know how that feels," he told her, "But if music is what you need, then I can think of worse obsessions to have."
"It feels strange," Megan returned. "As if I have discovered an uninhabited land." Her grandfather leaned against the other side of the counter.
"And you can't wait to explore it all, huh?" His granddaughter nodded. "OK... I'll make a bargain with ya," he began. "We stumbled on something you wanna do, so we're halfway there. You can strengthen the mind all day, but you're gonna waste away if you don't get your strength up, too."
Megan listened, wondering what the other end of the bargain was.
"I have no argument to that," she said, cautiously. Her grandfather grinned.
"You are smart," he told her. "Here's the deal: you come swimmin' with me in the mornings—couple times a week-and then you can listen to music... and practice on my very special guitar, as
much as you want." He cleared his throat. "Except during mealtimes. You gotta eat."
Studying her grandfather's expression-as well as his arms crossed over his chest-Megan surmised that arguing, in this instance, would likely be futile. She also saw concern present in Ron's eyes. Rules already, and she hadn't even begun to explore the new realm. The smell of brewing coffee filled the air around them. It seemed like an oppressive cloud, all of the sudden.
"I gather that you don't want me getting too hung up on one thing," she returned, blinking. Ron reached over the counter and patted her shoulder.
"Balance is key with everything, Megan," he told her. "Better to learn that now, right? Before you dive in feet first." He cleared his throat. "I did that, you know, when your grandmother died." Megan met his gaze again. "I was restoring my truck-the one out there-as a hobby back then. After the funeral, I went into my shop and ground down metal for two days in a row. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat." Ron sucked in a breath and let it run out before continuing. "Ended up with a bunch of pieces of scrap that weren't good for nuthin'. Then that visceral practicality—that your dad mentioned to you—kicked back in." He looked Megan in the eye over the counter. "I had to make a choice... I could throw in the towel and let my grief consume me, or I could shake it off and make somethin' useful out of my life." A smile small overtook his mouth. "I sure as hell knew which path Rachael would have wanted me to take."
Megan allowed the story to flood her mind, replacing her disappointment. She could imagine each scene as her grandfather described it: the emptiness of the funeral, the lonely metal shop, the sound of machinery, the flying sparks, the beads of sweat… mixed with tears. She could even see Ron sitting at the table in the backyard-under the swaying leaves of the eucalyptus tree-coming to this pivotal conclusion, in the process staving off insanity, alcoholism... or worse.
"I… see," she said, simply.
Ron could see understanding in her eyes, an ascertaining of the gravity of his words, and everything that went with it.
"Glad to hear it," he returned. He reached up, taking down a white coffee mug from the blue shelf along the wall. "Coffee?" His granddaughter smiled and shook her head.
"I prefer tea, thank you." Ron snorted.
"Sheesh... now I gotta buy tea, too?" He shot a grin at his granddaughter; she did not return it. "So, do we have a deal?"
Megan studied his face for a moment.
"You haven't asked if I can swim," she pointed out. Ron chuckled.
"Nice try. If you didn't that would have been the first thing outta your mouth." He laughed a bit at her downcast expression. "You're not the only one with a brain, Megan." His granddaughter smiled despite herself.
"I won't underestimate you again," she replied. "And I can buy my own tea, as well as a swimsuit. I don't want to be a burden to you."
Ron took a sip of his coffee.
"You leave your money be," he said, gently. "Save it for when you really need it. And you're not a burden to me." His granddaughter blinked at him.
"I'm not usually a 'hugging' type of person," she said. "But, may I give you one?" Her grandfather responded by holding out one arm to his side.
Megan walked around the counter and lightly put her arms around him. She closed her eyes against a rising tide of tears, feeling the cotton fabric of his T-shirt against her face. He smelled differently than her father, she noted. It was not unpleasant, however; just, different. Her grandfather patted her back with his free hand.
"So... deal?" he asked. Smiling, Megan drew back, wiping her eyes with her shirt sleeve.
"Yes."
The one word was more than sufficient. Ron nodded, satisfied. He poured himself some more coffee.
"Pool opens in a half-hour," he told his granddaughter. "I usually take the bus." He looked down at Megan. "You OK with the bus?"
"I've never been on one."
"Figures."
"Daddy used to take one in to work for a little while," Megan said. "He said they were antiquated and bursting with influenza." Her grandfather made a face.
"The buses 'round here are pretty clean," Ron told her. "They wipe 'em down each night. And I always get a flu shot." He looked sideways at Megan. "I guess I should know if you've had your immunizations." His granddaughter nodded.
"When I was discharged from hospital, Momma took me to get them. Some then, some a few months later. She said it couldn't possibly do me any harm." Her grandfather chuckled.
"Sensible. Well, I got an extra beach towel to take with you to the gym's pool. They sell suits at a shop within walking distance. We'll go there first."
Megan nodded, stepping back towards the kitchen door. Oddly, she felt better, somehow; lighter. Perhaps even able to wait that little while longer in order to launch into the musical realm that she'd dreamed of. Her grandfather had logic on his side. The entire universe operated on the concept of balance, from the largest celestial body to the smallest human function.
"I should use the restroom first," she told him. Ron nodded.
"Smart move," he returned, looking at the wall clock. "Next bus comes in fifteen minutes. We'll leave in five."
MEGAN SAT next to her grandfather on the bus, somewhat close to a smudged window. The seat below her felt somewhat cushioned; the top, sides and back were covered in Kelly-green imitation leather. She noted the absence of seat belts. Questions about the bus danced on the tip of her tongue, but her grandfather's posture and expression garnered her attention.
As the long, wide vehicle wove its way slowly through residential surface streets, Ron leaned against the seat, his arms crossed over his chest, his sunglasses over his eyes and one foot planted partially in the aisle. His eye swept each of the figures occupying the seats ahead, looking for any deviation from normal behavior. A teenage boy sat sullenly by an older woman, holding a pet travel-box on his lap. The sad creature inside—Ron guessed it to be a cat-yowled at an unearthly volume, unsettling everyone on the bus.
"I am so sorry," the woman kept saying to anyone within earshot. "He's just been neutered."
A middle-aged Latino man—dressed in a black leather jacket with cut-off sleeves-leaned over the seat in front of him.
"Lady, if that happened to me," he said, gravely, "I would be cussin' like that, too."
A collective chuckle rolled through the bus. Even Ron cracked a smile. One, small joke and the unspoken tension in the bus all but vanished. The woman, cat and youth exited at the next stop.
Ron could feel Megan studying him during the ride. Half the time he wondered what went through her mind-or how she perceived the world-after being cut off from the land of the living for so long. Was everything fresh and new to her, or did it all look frightening and dirty? He sat, staring ahead of him until he didn't feel scrutinized anymore. Glancing sideways he saw her looking out the window at the passing houses. One of her hands, encased in a long sleeve, rested on the plastic window casement.
"We get off at the next stop," he told her. "College & Mesa." Megan nodded, her eyes flicking from the sidewalk outside, to each figure walking on it, taking in data briefly and then moving on to a building or tree slowly passing by.
As the bus rolled to a stop, Ron gripped the back of the seat before him and moved to stand up. Megan followed suit, scooting across the seat towards the aisle. Nodding at the driver Ron stepped out the open doors to the sidewalk, reaching back to help his granddaughter down. No other passengers disembarked. The doors swung shut with their signature hiss of pressurized air and the vehicle rolled onward, down the street. A chemically, oily smell permeated the air in its wake.
Looking around the intersection, Megan spied a large building across the street. A sign out front identified it as the YMCA, but her grandfather pointed down the sidewalk a bit, to a row of shops nestled behind a narrow parking lot.
"There's a surf shop in there," Ron told her. "They've got diving stuff and swimmin' gear as well. Megan nodded, her hand automatically seeking his.
A cheerful door chime rang out as they entered the narrow store. A young man with sun-bleached hair-and a bored expression-sat behind a long counter. Megan noted the unusually bright hue of his orange T-shirt; it looked like he'd spilled fresh orange juice all over it. The clerk greeted them with a half-smile and asked if they needed help finding anything. Ron responded in the negative and the young man returned to staring at his computer monitor. Megan followed her grandfather around a free-standing rack of short boards, heading towards the swim-gear section.
"I'm guessing you swam at the hospital an' stuff," Ron said, pausing by a display of colorful eye-goggles. Megan nodded.
"We were encouraged to, when we had strength." She looked at a long rack of hanging swimsuits. "We wore caps for warmth, though. No hair."
Ron gave his granddaughter a sideways glance as he looked for the kid's sizes.
"Can't help but notice," he mused aloud, "that whenever you talk about bein' at the hospital, you change tenses." Megan smiled a little.
"From 'I' to 'we', you mean?" Her grandfather nodded. "Out of habit. After a while I began to view kids with cancer as 'us'... and all the healthy people as 'them.' Apparently, all the cancer kids do this, according to the staff, not necessarily just the brilliant ones. Continuing to do so made me feel somewhat normal, accepted, if you will… it felt almost like a luxury to temporarily abandon one's self-reliance, and adopt a collective mental state. It helped me feel as if I were not alone. And in many ways, I wasn't most of us go through the same symptoms on chemotherapy. We even look alike: wispy, bald… almost inhuman."
Megan felt a warm hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she met her grandfather's gray gaze; his eyes held an abnormally compassionate look.
"You don't look so much like that now," Ron told her. "You've got more color in your face than when I first saw ya." He smiled. "You can walk a lot faster, too." Megan felt a surge of well-being course through her at the words.
"I'm glad," she responded, letting a smile spread over her face. "I'd hate to slow you down." Her grandfather chuckled, turning back to the swimwear rack.
"I don't mind if I gotta slow down for you." Ron unhooked a small swimsuit from the rack and held it up to his granddaughter. He made a face. "Definitely not black. It makes you like even whiter." Megan let out a soft laugh.
"Do you see a green one?" she asked. Ron snorted, hanging the black suit back up.
"There are other colors, you know," he mumbled. He picked out a dark red suit with little gray shorts attached to it. "This one would be OK. Gives your skin a bit more life." Megan felt the suit's material with her fingertips.
"It's not repulsive," she conceded. Ron grinned.
"That's success in my book," he told her. "Is it the right size? There are a couple more here..."
Eventually the correct size suit was located, along with a pair of dark red goggles. Megan found she liked the idea of wearing shorts over the suit. Having a body like a living skeleton tended to draw unwanted stares, usually followed by looks of pity. She stood by the counter as Ron paid for the items. He showed her to roll the suit up in the worn beach towel he'd given her at the house and stow them away in her little day bag.
"Thank you," she told Ron as they exited the store. "Now I just need to buy some energy." Ron patted her shoulder.
"Just start slow," he told her. "Slow and steady, like the tortoise. Pretty soon you'll be doin' more laps than me."
Megan mused in silence as they walked. Her grandfather didn't seem to embody any of the stereotypical senior citizen attributes pictured in movies: thin, white-haired individuals playing golf, reading in a rocking chair or dozing in front of the TV. In sharp contrast to these notions Ron walked slightly ahead of her, his stride marked by inherent strength, his eyes darting around in constant motion. He played guitar, built trucks, cooked his own meals and organized the demolishing of walls on a whim. Megan did not find this energy intimidating anymore. In his presence, she felt a little more able to keep the waves of tiredness at bay.
Her grandfather stopped at the next intersection, looking first one way and then the other. Megan took his hand as they waited for a minivan and two sedans to glide past them. The YMCA building seemed larger with each step they took towards it. A sizable parking lot sat adjacent, half-full of cars. The many colors of the various paintjobs glinted in the morning sun; white seemed the most predominant. Her grandfather went in the front doors of the building, holding one open for her.
Ron nodded at a young woman behind the front counter; she wore a crisp blue polo shirt with YMCA embroidered on in big letters across the front pocket.
"Hello, Mr. Tembler," she said cheerfully. She noted Megan and smiled. "Can I get you a guest pass today?"
"Thanks," Ron responded, signing his name on the pad. "I'll need to add my granddaughter onto my membership." The girl nodded and typed for a moment on her keyboard. Ron gave her Megan's name and birth date. After a few minutes she slid a clear, laminated card, complete with blue logo magnetic strip, across the counter to Ron. He gave it to Megan and showed her how to run it through the card-readers on the entrance stall.
"You just push through," he explained, nudging his way past the revolving barrier. Megan slid her card and pushed against the stall. It didn't budge. Ron pulled on the barrier a little until it gave way.
"Thank you," his granddaughter said. "Maybe after a few laps I can do it, myself." Grinning, Ron led the way towards a set of glass double doors. Through them Megan could see a wide, cement patio and the corner of an outdoor pool. People could also be seen, some sitting in the shade or laying on chaise lounges in the sun. Taking a long breath Megan followed her grandfather out the door, into the strong sunlight.
Ron did not see anyone he recognized. Two swimmers did laps down their respective lanes, oblivious to everything but the approaching pool wall in front of them. Standing still, Ron waited for Megan to catch up. He pointed to a line of small huts up against one side of the building, complete with mats on the floors, and doors.
"You can get changed in one of those," he told her. "I'll stand outside and make sure no one bugs ya."
Giving her grandfather a grateful look, Megan chose a hut and locked the door behind her. She saw her grandfather's sneakers stop outside the door, facing away towards the pool like a sentry on guard duty. Smiling, Megan made her arms work faster as she undressed. The new suit felt a little bit loose around the middle, but the shorts had a string belt, one that tightened adequately. Packing her dry clothes back in the waterproof bag, she unlocked the door and stepped out, the new goggles in hand.
"That was quick," Ron remarked. "They fit ya OK?" Megan nodded. With a nod her grandfather disappeared into the hut to change, himself. Megan heard the bolt click and looked at the pool. The blue, rippling water-lined by white floating lane boundaries—seemed familiar to her, but not in this context. The hospital pools she'd seen were always indoors, hemmed in by walls decorated with signs bearing block-printed words like "aquatic, or "therapy" accompanies by idealized images of dolphins.
The feel and smell of chlorinated water did not appeal at Megan, but she could not deny that swimming did feel therapeutic for both mind and body. Just the buoying effect of the liquid made her feel more cheerful, as if embraced by the water. Some of her fellow patients viewed it as their one joy in the hospital, to float and splash without effort, pretending—for just a moment—that all was well with the world. Megan could never bring herself to pretend anything, even when she wanted to.
"How easy it would be," she thought. "To pretend to be someone else... someone healthy, with living parents." Too easy. Once she headed down that path, Megan knew she might never re-emerge. The very last thing that either she-or her parents-wanted for her was to begin seeing things that weren't there or end up like the teenagers that argued with plants, or were found wandering roads not knowing where, or who, they were.
Megan suppressed a shudder at the unwelcome thoughts. Her eyes drifted to a young mother sitting by a second, shallower pool nearby, apparently designed for young children. She held a rambunctious toddler by one hand, letting the little tyke kick and splash in the water. The tiny boy reached down one little hand to the water and hit it, his crows of delight mixing with his mother's laughter in the warm, sunny air. Pretending was futile.
"At least I can watch life unfold around me," she thought. The toddler's unbridled joy seemed contagious. Megan found herself drawn to experience the water again for herself. She reached up to the side of her head, feeling the short curling locks thereon. She wondered how different it would feel to swim with hair.
The door of the changing hut opened behind her.
"Ready to go in?" her grandfather asked. Megan looked over at him and nodded. Ron seemed out of place to her-without his T-shirt and jeans-but his stride remained unchanged. Without hesitation, Ron stepped to the edge of the pool-by the farthest lanes-and sat down. His granddaughter imitated him, letting her feet dangle into the cool water. The sharp sting of chlorine gathered in her nostrils, making her sneeze. "Smells weird, I know," her grandfather said, rinsing his goggles in the water. "But you get used to it." Megan nodded, lowering her own goggles into the pool. Moving them around, she poured the excess water out as she'd seen her swim therapist do many times.
Ron watched her from the corner of his eye. Megan's lack of communication bothered him, but then again it didn't. It seemed to him that she was merely going through the motions of this exercise in order to get back to the house quicker... back to the guitar lessons, and The Music. Adjusting the damp goggles over his eyes, Ron slid into the cool waters of the pool, one hand hanging onto the rounded cement of the wall. Megan mimicked his movements, gasping a little at the temperature change on her skin. Her grandfather grinned at her over the bobbing floats.
"If you keep moving, you'll get warmer," he offered. Megan latched onto the wall and met his eye.
"I remember," she informed him in an even tone. "I also remember how to float if I get tired." Ron gave her an approving nod.
"Good. Then I won't hafta rescue you." He grinned at her before ducking below the surface.
Megan watched him crouch down under the water and then launch away from the wall. His wavy silhouette moved away from her as if in slow motion, popping up above the surface again halfway across the pool. Immediately he slid into a smooth crawl-stroke towards the other side. Letting go of the wall, Megan let herself sink down a little as she forced her arms forward, trying to make them recall the glide-and-kick motion required for continued buoyancy. Slowly, she began moving away from the wall, keeping the water level just under her nose. Reach and kick and pull and kick. Reach... and kick... and pull... and reach.
Ron touched the opposite wall, looking back quickly-over this shoulder-to check on Megan. He saw her little head bobbing out of the water in the next lane, doggedly making her way towards him. The dark red goggles masked a determined glare. Ron slipped back under the water, reveling in the smooth rush of anti-gravity and liquid motion that the simple act of swimming provided. It was one of the few things that made one feel purely vital, as if both time and the laws of physics were stalled. Each time he touched the wall Ron checked on his granddaughter's progress before taking off again. By the time he'd finished his twenty laps, she'd finished two. He helped her sit up on the warm cement wall before dragging himself out of the pool.
"Not bad," Ron told his granddaughter, rubbing his shoulder. The first twinges of soreness could already be keenly felt. "I thought you'd get at least one lap finished."
"I floated through most of the second one," Megan admitted. She felt tired, but not exhausted; a small amount of energy yet lingered within her, as if fueled by the exercise. Her grandfather seemed pleased with her effort, something which made her feel better about exerting herself. It seemed like a lot of trouble for little result, but she kept this to herself.
"Soon I can hear the music again," she thought, watching as her grandfather stood up. Pool water ran off him in small rivulets, soaking into the porous cement patio-turning the light gray surface dark. Megan squinted up through her goggles at the sun; it glinted through the tiny droplets trapped in her goggles.
"Megan," called her grandfather. "Let's get goin'." He was already sitting in one of the sun-kissed chairs, his faded towel over one knee. Megan slowly got up and walked towards him, noting her limbs and muscles seemed suddenly shaky. She sank into the chair next to Ron, grateful for the warmth from the pale, plastic surface that immediately leeched into her skin. Ron got out her towel and draped it over her shoulders.
"Th... thanks," his granddaughter told him. Her teeth chattered as she spoke.
"We'll sit here in the sun," Ron told her. "'Til you warm up a bit." Megan nodded, concentrating on her wet footprints on the cement. Quickly they changed into a mottled gray, disappearing altogether as the sun evaporated the last remnants of water.
As soon as warmth stole back into her limbs, Megan felt the moment of weakness leave her. Glancing over at her grandfather she found him watching her, concern showing all over his features. She smiled.
"I'm better now," she assured him. "I just have to get used to it again." Ron nodded, a little more slowly than usual. He did not look convinced but said nothing. He handed her a dry sweatshirt and the sweatpants. Megan put them on over her wet things.
More swimmers were in the pool now. Two college-age women chatted pleasantly as they lay out in the sunshine, far away from the splashing swimmers. The mother—and her laughing toddler—had left the pool area some time ago. Looking at all the activity Megan wondered if her grandfather was correct in his assumptions. Perhaps... just perhaps, if she came back with him every day, she would get stronger.
"And if he teaches me how to play the music," she thought, "then perhaps I will want to be well." She stayed quiet as she walked by her grandfather through the patio, out of the YMCA building and back to the bus stop.
They rode for some blocks in pleasant quiet before Ron spoke up.
"Not gonna study me this time?" he asked, looking at Megan from the corner of his eye. His granddaughter glanced back at him and then smiled.
"I wasn't actually studying you, per se," she told him. "I was watching you watch everyone else." Ron let out an amused snort.
"You were, huh?" He folded his arms over his chest and shifted to a more comfortable spot on the seat. "Force of habit," he explained. His eyes drifted briefly over the few other passengers in the seats ahead of and around them. "One of the first things marine recruits are taught is that bein' aware of your surroundings at all times can save your life." He cleared his throat. "Proved true, for me… on a number of occasions."
Megan wanted very much to ask about these occasions, but her grandfather's closed posture suggested he'd rather not expound on the notion, at least not in present company.
"Does that mean you can't relax?" she asked instead. Ron gave her a sideways glance.
"Kinda. More like you can relax when you're back in your Fortress of Solitude." He gave Megan a grin. "Though, I bet you don't know what that is, huh."
His granddaughter smiled a little ruefully.
"On most pop culture terms, yes, I am ignorant," she admitted. "But even the most withdrawn patient knows about Superman. Comic books are universally popular in the various realms of Pediatric Oncology."
"I suppose they would be," Ron mused aloud. "Folks overcoming horrendous odds and all that." Megan nodded.
"My favorite was Batman," she told him.
Ron gave her a half-smile.
"Didn't expect that, from you," he admitted "Why him?"
"He didn't have any super-powers," came his granddaughter's frank reply. "The character was unusually intelligent, and rich, but he still had to gain strength, dexterity and escape knowledge the old-fashioned way... by denying himself and working at it."
"Huh. Funny, I never noticed that before." Ron looked out Megan's window at the sidewalk passing by outside. "I remember when your dad got his first Batman comic." He smiled a little. "He got some Batman pajamas that year, too. Wanted to wear them all the time." Megan studied her grandfather's profile. His face seemed less closed than before when he'd recounted memories; he looked relaxed.
"He dressed up as Batman a few times," she said, a small smile forming on her mouth. "At the hospital." Ron looked at her.
"What, for Halloween or somethin'?" he hazarded.
"No... the first time was in January. He just showed up in Pediatric Oncology dressed that way, with the cape and everything." Ron watched as his granddaughter spoke. Not a trace of sadness was in her face.
"Bet all the kids liked that," he said. "The younger ones at least." Megan nodded.
"The older ones too. He really put on a show. Even the doctors played along, and they asked him to do it again." Megan met her grandfather's eye. "I know it may seem silly, a grown man dressing up as Batman, but I appreciated the irony of an English literature professor projecting himself as a fictional hero."
"Ironic, huh?" Ron murmured. His granddaughter smiled at him.
"The ideas behind him dressing up and trying to beat cancer are one and the same, or so we are told. You put on strength that you don't have in order to 'fight evil'… the disease, in my case." Megan cleared her throat a little, looking down at her hands. "I always thought Daddy was heroic. He never lost hope in me... or, if he did, he never showed it on his face." Her clear gray eyes sought Ron's. "I see that he got that inner strength from you."
Ron took in a long breath and let it run out.
"Kinda," he returned. "His mother had it too." He cleared his throat. "She'd always be optimistic, no matter what happened. It was kind of annoying, when I first met her, but after a while I began to a see that being around that kind of cheerful, hopeful attitude was a comfort unlike any other." Unfolding one arm, he patted Megan's hand. "So, you got strength from both of us… and your dad. Triple dose." His granddaughter took his hand and held it.
"Maybe more." Megan looked out the window. "Gramma Rachel sounds like Momma, the way you described her. A sunny disposition, Daddy called it. Her smile seemed to impart energy in of itself."
Ron grunted.
"Well, you didn't get that from me," he told her. Megan let out an involuntary chuckle at her grandfather's frankness. Ron gave her a half-smile. "I hope you got it in there, somewhere." His granddaughter nodded.
"As do I."
"I gotta get back to the restoration in my garage today," Ron said, after a moment. "But maybe I can spare an hour for another guitar lesson, before I start all that."
Megan did not reply. Her smile, however, reached all the way to her eyes. Ron nodded to himself, his gaze once again scanning the other passengers of the bus. Megan sat forward a little, looking ahead out the window, counting the blocks back to their very own street.
Author's note: thank you for reading and reviewing. I do so enjoy hearing your thoughts and remarks. :-)