The second night spent on the farm was hardly any different than the first. The strange, inexplicable footsteps, thumps, knocks, and even the sound of a closing door continued, but I was no longer really spooked by them. Just unsettled. I knew they weren't caused by anything that was truly capable of harm. We'd already extensively checked the house and outdoors for humans and animals that didn't belong, and found neither. We never saw anything either; just felt odd presences and heard perplexing noises that weren't just "old house" noises.
The noises grew more frequent and obvious as time wore on, and especially as my grandma's condition suddenly took a turn for the absolute worst on the second night. She was still not in any pain thanks to the medications she was on. But, she grew increasingly tired and pretty much completely lost her appetite by the second day I was there. She also nearly entirely lost her ability to use the bathroom on her own or do things as simple as change the channel on the TV, all within the span of twelve hours.
It was then I began to wonder if my grandma had been "holding on" to see me. She knew I was coming, and wouldn't shut up about me on the days leading up to my flight into Minneapolis. It was also pretty obvious that I was (and still am) The Favorite. While looking through piles upon piles of pictures starting from 2001, about half of them were just of me. The other half were of everyone else in the family.
In a way, I felt terribly guilty. Had I just been prolonging my grandma's suffering by giving her a reason to hold onto life just a little longer? After all, I've heard many stories of dying people somehow convincing the Grim Reaper to stay away awhile longer, so they can see a loved one alive one last time. It tore me apart thinking my grandma was suffering so severely just to see me one last time while on this Earth. A part of me regretted letting her know that I was on my way to the farm. Maybe if she hadn't known I was coming, she would've gone easier and sooner.
To relieve myself of this festering guilt, I headed outside where the night was void of clouds and an arm of the Milky Way was clearly visible stretching across the sky. I made sure to wander pretty far from the lights of the farmhouse, so my eyes could adjust to the darkness, enabling me to see the numerous colorful gases and stars that made up a small part of our home galaxy. Staring up at the bronze, blue, and gold heavens sprinkled with twinkling dots, I allowed my thoughts to wander. I didn't say much aloud (I don't even remember if I said my prayer in words), knowing God was aware of what my heart was trying to convey.
Essentially, I told God about my nauseating worry that I had inadvertently caused my grandma Shirley to suffer more than she needed to, by giving her a valid reason to stay alive a little longer. I expressed that if it was her time, right then and there, that I would understand it. Of course, I would miss her greatly and grieve her death. But, there would also be a bit of relief, knowing she was no longer suffering from such a terrible illness as cancer. That, and I also hoped that with her passing, whatever weird spiritual shit that was happening within the house would also diminish. After all, I'd never witnessed the house so active with strange, unexplained activity and unsettling (though not exactly threatening) vibes before. At least, not since my grandpa Bob passed away. It was, of course, pretty fucking creepy and I didn't want anything to do with it, regardless of if it was sinister or not.
In short, I simply prayed for peace and comfort. Whatever that peace and comfort were or meant, I just prayed for it. We, as a family, needed that. Desperately.
Almost as soon as I finished my prayer and turned towards the house, I heard engines in the distance rapidly approaching. Before I could really react, a whole convoy of vehicles; a shitbox sedan, two huge pickups, a couple SUVs, all came speeding onto the driveway in a single-file line. I was, quite literally, a deer in the headlights until I got to my senses and bolted off the driveway and into the front lawn. For a brief moment, I concealed myself in the darkness beside an ancient oak tree, not quite sure to think of the sudden, rowdy company. Then, I remembered: it was Friday night, and everyone was coming over for a massive fish boil.
I trotted out of the woods and was immediately charged by two four-legged creatures. The largest of the two knocked me to the ground, and the smaller one immediately lunged at my face, mauling me with kisses. Lots and lots of kisses.
"Ruby! Hank! Off!" I heard my aunt Jess call from the darkness.
Immediately, the animals got off me, and I stumbled to my feet soaked in dog slobber.
"Sorry about that!" Jess shook her head.
"Oh, no worries," I chuckled, "Y'know I love dogs!"
I squatted back down to pet the two crazies. Hank was an older, though still very puppy-like, Golden Lab. The other, Ruby, the Black Lab, was still just a puppy, and hadn't quite yet learned how to wag her tail (her tail wagged her instead). After a moment of petting, the dogs caught a whiff of the giant vat of seafood boiling in the kitchen, and charged towards the house with me lagging behind.
Inside, the air was warm as ever, both temperature and feeling wise. There was just something magical about being surrounded by almost my entire paternal side of the family, in a farmhouse so full of memories and love. Even grandma seemed youthful and full of life, at least for the first half hour or so of the party. Seated in grandpa's old wheelchair at his spot at the dining table, grandma ate a hearty plate of shrimp and coleslaw, and was laughing along with the rest of us as we relayed stories of the last couple years or so.
In the center of the dining table, a wireless speaker was playing country bluegrass music (the same kind I love to wreck my truck's speakers with whenever I drive). Surrounding it were mango-flavored beers and my favorite kind of Kombucha, which happened to be my cousin's favorite too. Several decks' worth in playing cards were scattered around the table as some people attempted to play Euchre while everyone else was eating seafood like ravenous tigers. Nobody used crab crackers to break open the boiled crustaceans we were eating. We all used our hands and teeth, shaking our heads in a tearing motion not unlike what nature documentaries film predators doing.
We were civil, but so very far from civilized.
Of course, grandma just had to spoil the dogs. Hank knew right away how to beg, but Ruby didn't know that she could beg for food. At least, not until grandma gave both dogs a hearty helping of steamed, seasoned veggies and boiled whitefish. My aunt Jess, unable to tell my grandma not to do that, just pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head in disappointment. Jess tried, and ultimately failed, to keep Ruby from learning that she could get people food from the table when humans were eating.
During all of this, we were swapping stories, most of which were absolutely hilarious. Andy relayed tales of his days working on various oil rigs around the country, from "losing too many braincells to count" dealing with trespassing rednecks and covid-deniers in West Virginia, to the stupid shit he did over the summer with a shitload of tannerite.
Dad and I told stories about our adventures with the Jeep, and the troubles we dealt with along the way. The funniest part was when Dad and I explained how he accidentally hot-wired the Jeep while trying to install the CB radio, and it lurched forward before Dad disconnected the wires and got back to the drawing board. My toes were within a half inch of being flattened by the Jeep's rear tire, but I had jumped into the Jeep before my toes became 2D. Of course, me being a bit of an asshole said, "I about pulled an Uncle Wade there...", rightfully earning myself a swift swat in the back of my head by Uncle Wade who chuckled, "You little shit!"
Of course, this ornery little exchange led my uncle to talk, in detail, about what he remembered happening that fateful spring day in 2018, when he was almost killed by his own tractor. He was trying to get his Case International Harvester to start after it had been sitting in the tractor shed for a very long time, using a start-box to shock the battery to life. However, the tractor was in gear, though my uncle thought it was in neutral. When Wade jumped the tractor, it came to life in first gear, knocking him off his ladder and rolling over his legs. Uncle Wade woke up in a pool of his own blood on the gravel in front of his tractor shed, and had just enough sense to call Junior before passing out again.
However, when Junior arrived at the scene and called the paramedics while Uncle Wade lied lifeless and bleeding, the dispatcher told my cousin that help was already on the way. Someone had already called an emergency helicopter for my uncle, almost twenty minutes before Junior did. However, my uncle doesn't recall calling for an ambulance, and he was completely alone on the farm with no one else around to witness the accident. So, who called the ambulance? Had my uncle woken up once before, called 9-1-1, and didn't remember it? Or, did something or Someone else call the paramedics before my cousin did?
"I wasn't much of a religious man before that..." Uncle Wade finished his story, "But, now my faith remains firm as ever. Not only did someone call the paramedics before I remembered calling Junior, but if the paramedics weren't called before Junior called them, I would've died and not come back. I'd lost almost half of the blood in my body by the time I made it to the hospital and could get a blood transfusion..."
Even after my uncle was stabilized at the hospital, the doctors were certain he'd be bed-ridden for months, and was likely to not make a full recovery. However, like all of us in the family, Uncle Wade's an intensely stubborn and tough man. He was at home on crutches a week and a half after the accident. Two weeks after his fight with his International Harvester, my grandpa Bob died, and I saw my uncle Wade on crutches with sixteen stitches in the back of his head (he had been scalped by the wheel-well of the tractor as he fell off the ladder), but not always using them.
"Sure, I had two broken feet and a massive gash in my head, but I didn't listen to the doctors all that well..." Uncle Wade admitted, "I kinda had fun freaking everyone out by putting weight on my legs when I shouldn't have... But, it was all well and good because I made a full recovery..."
Andy's girlfriend, an ICU nurse who quit her job after working through the pandemic without a break, nearly choked on her food.
"There's a reason why we tell people not to put weight on their broken legs!" she practically screamed.
"Again, everything was just fine in the end." my uncle bragged, "I wasn't about to just sit in bed all day everyday for six months. I needed to get up and move around, y'know?"
"Speaking of which..." my dad began with a grin stretching across his face, "Maya's definitely gone against the advice of doctors more than once, right? Right?"
"Dad..." I growled, side-eyeing him.
"Didn't you have a cardiology appointment recently?" Dad teased.
"Dad, no..."
"And instead of taking the doctor's advice to rest and eat healthy the day before your exam, you drank a shitload of caffeine and went for a hike in the valley?"
Andy's girlfriend was staring daggers into my soul as I took a swig of my fifth can of soda of the night.
"How did it go?" my uncle asked.
"It went just fine!" I replied truthfully, "I'm healthy as can be and the caffeine plus the hike had no ill effects on my echocardiogram."
"Why did you need an echocardiogram?" Andy's girlfriend asked me, "And why did you do exactly what you weren't supposed to do before it?"
"Uhhhh... How do I explain this?" I thought aloud, while Andy's girlfriend's stare grew more intense and she crossed her arms.
Thankfully, my grandma Shirley rescued me from having to explain my situation when she declared that she was tired and wanted to go to bed. I was so relieved that I didn't have to explain my heart situation to an ICU nurse while drinking copious amounts of caffeine and eggnog. At least, not then.
