Just Me, The Hundred Year Old Man

The other night I was just crawling into bed. Kids all snug in their beds. Husband snoring in the other room. I shoved over the dog. I was finally getting a moment of quiet without anyone asking for anything or needing anything.

Then I hear over the baby monitor. “Baaaaaarrrrry…”

It’s Poppa calling. He’s our 100 year old baby next door.

Darn. I get out of bed. Usually I wait to see if Barry will get up first, but I figure ahh well, I’m the only one up, I barely even got my feet warm. It’s no problem.

I pad down the hall. Through the door. He’s still calling Barry.

I get to his bed.

“Poppa, what’s up?”

“Who is it?” He says.

“It’s Julie.”

“Julie?”

“Yep. What do you need?”

“What do I do now?” He says.

“It’s midnight,” I say to him.

“Midnight!”

“It’s time to go to sleep.”

“Okay Julie.”

“Goodnight.”

“Okay. Goodnight Julie.”

I sneak back out. Back down the hall. I get back in bed. Nice cozy warm covers. Silence.

“Juuuuuuulieeeeee….” I hear the monitor.

I get back up. Follow the path. Through the kitchen.

Back at his bedside.

“Julie?” He says squinting.

“Poppa what’s up?”

“What do I do now?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“It is?” He picks up his huge silver clock, the old fashioned round kind with the two bells on top that look like
ears.

“It’s time to go to sleep.”

“Yes,” he says.

“You feeling okay?”

“I feel okay,” he says. “Yes.”

I’m standing there a second.

He finally shrugs. Holding up both hands in defeat at the ceiling. “I can’t sleep,” he says, in surprise. It’s so funny I smile.

“Are you thinking about something?”

“No,” he says, after thinking a moment.

I stand there. Well, what do I do? Should I give him a Xanax? I don’t think that seems right. My mom worked with dementia patients and I know attivan helps when they can’t sleep. But we don’t have any and I feel like drugs are probably not the place we want to LEAP to. I think about what is the next best thing. I’m awake anyway.

“Want me to sit with you awhile?”

“That would be fine,” he says.

So I sit on the edge of his bed and put my feet up under his leg. I pat his head and smooth down his wisps of hair, because it always helped when my mom scratched my head when she’d say goodnight to me. People need to be touched, she’d say. It’s quiet in there and I’d snuggle with him if he was my real grandpa. But since I’m sort of old and didn’t grow up sitting on his lap or anything, I feel like it might be weird for me to lay any closer. I’m already rubbing his head. What if he fell asleep and woke up and didn’t know who the hell was in bed with him.

My mind finally quiets down and it’s just me, the hundred year old man, the dark safe room, and smoothing down his head. It’s kind of a nice thing. To comfort somebody who can’t sleep, and needs a little help. A secret superpower. Just a hand, smoothing away the rest of the world.

His breathing gets nice and relaxed, and he puts his silver clock down on the bed where it sleeps next to him.

“That’s my clock,” he says.

“I see that,” I say. Looking at the fat clock.

He lifts it so it’s standing on its squatty silver legs. It takes a few tries, falling over because of the folds of the blanket but finally stands.

“It stands up,” he says, kind of proudly.

“That’s cool,” I say.

We watch the clock gleaming for awhile.

He sighs and he’s okay now. After a few minutes he falls asleep. His clock standing watch.