We Are All Fine

Abstract

We Are All Fine Elnathan John (bio) My grandfather pulls out his penis and attempts to aim. His hands tremble, but he needs to find the right angle so he doesn't mess up the hospital toilet seat like he did yesterday. This is the one thing he will not let me help him do. And he will not sit to pee, he says. —Once I sit to pee, he grunts, you might as well kill me, just stop feeding me until I die. I prepare myself to wipe when he finishes. I stand behind him, at a distance that provides the illusion of privacy while allowing me to be there as soon as something goes wrong. He sighs as he waits for the trickle. I bite my inner cheeks as I wait for it. Yesterday we went three times before I heard the first few drops. The sigh is new. I know his groan. I know his grunt. I know, at least from what my uncles tell me, his scream, the projectiles from his mouth chased quickly by words none of them could repeat to me. I used to say that I am patient. Now I say I hope I am patient. Of all his grandchildren, I look most like him. I have his limbs and his lips, his gleaming dark skin and his dry hands and feet that need to be frequently moisturized or risk looking leprous. I wonder, did he grow into this, keeping all the demons at bay until he capitulated in middle age and left a trail of sordid memories in the minds of his children? I wonder, do I have his heart? I stop biting my cheeks and listen for the familiar groan—the one just before the trickle. After a few seconds I hear the drops and heave a sigh of relief. There is success today in the face of all the failure—of his heart, of his kidneys, of his spirit. He reaches behind him to hold something for balance, huffing, gasping. He will not ask for help. I spring toward him catching his frail, flailing arms. When his hand touches mine, he pauses, making as if to shoo it away. He holds onto it instead. I hold on and use my other hand to gently turn him around. Then I lift his left hand over my shoulder and pass my right arm around his waist. His lips are bunched. He avoids my eyes, grunting with each shuffle of his feet. His stomach trembles and the tips of his fingers are cold. I cover his body with the thick blanket, propping his head with the pillow before I feed him some warm chicken soup. His fingers seem shorter than they used to be when I was a prepubescent boy running around in his compound, and he [End Page 85] would wave me away from the well that always fascinated me. I would try to go as close as possible, to see my reflection in the water. I wondered then how many days or weeks it took and how many men, to dig and scrape out earth until they found water down, down below. The few times I was able to look properly when he had fallen asleep, I saw there were holes in the cylindrical wall of the well, perhaps for the diggers to climb out. Perhaps it was possible to climb in the same way the last man climbed out. Was it cold down there? Would I hear my heartbeat bounce against the walls? Then one day my mother told me how a little boy drowned in a well inside his home a few streets from us and cured me of all my curiosity _____ I place some kitchen rolls around his neck. I tip spoonfuls of soup into his lips, slowly, so that when it spills, I can wipe before it stains the sheets or his shirt. After the third spoon, he bunches his mouth, refusing any more. He could feed himself, but his trembling hands will spill soup everywhere. As I wait for him to loosen the muscles of his mouth and take the soup, which I fear is...