I got her laid out on the rug in the living room. I tried to get her up
on the sofa, but I couldn't budge her. So I gave her pillows from the
sofa and water and then I tried tea, but she couldn't take it. She threw
up once, and I soaked it up with a tea towel that had fussy roses on it.
She took my hand and her grip was weak, her strong hands suddenly thin
and shaky.
It took an hour for her to die.
When she died, she made a rasping, rattling sound and then she shat
herself. I could smell it.
It was all I could smell, as I sat there in the little apartment, six
years old, hot as hell outside and stuffy inside. I opened the windows
and watched the Hasids walk past. I felt like I should *do something*
for the old lady, but I didn't know what.
I formulated a plan. I would go outside and bring in some grown-up to
take care of the old lady. I would do the grocery shopping and eat
sandwiches until I was twelve, at which point I would be grown up and I
would get a job fixing televisions.
I marched into my room and changed into my best clothes, the little
Alice-blue dress I wore to dinner on Sundays, and I brushed my hair and
put on my socks with the blue pom-poms at the ankles, and found my shoes
in the hall closet. But it had been three years since I'd last worn the
shoes, and I could barely fit three toes in them.
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