Free The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma by Iain Reid Page A

ask?” she answers. “I always sleep well, no matter what. I’m lucky that way.”
    I smile. She smiles back. It’s true. I’ve never once heard Grandma complain of a bad night’s sleep, regardless of churning thoughts, environmental conditions, or sleeping quarters. Ever. My sleeping habits have improved in recent years but are still erratic. When I lived in Toronto and was working a variety of part-time jobs, I’d go weeks without having a full night’s sleep. I was tired but wasn’t clear how I fit into the city and felt adventively confined. On the worst nights, I’d get out of bed, leave my apartment, and go for long walks through the city, up and down Parliament Street or along Queen, regardless of weather or time of night. I don’t take too many late-night walks anymore. Now when I can’t sleep, I make a snack or read, or just stay lying in the dark, thinking. Even the most vapid, petty cognitional involution makes sleep unviable. Grandma moves over to the sink. She must want a glass of water! I instinctively step in front of her like a bouncer. This (understandably) startles her.
    â€œOh, sorry, Grandma. Do you want some water or something?” I’ve adapted my voice again now, to try and sound soft and hospitable. “I can get that for you, just take a seat.” It’s coming out sounding higher-pitched and vaguely feminine. I am a tired Canadian Truman Capote.
    â€œOh, well.” She points at the tap, within arm’s reach. “I mean, I can get it.”
    I wrestle my lips into another smile. “No, no, I’ll do that. You just sit down.”
    â€œOkay, sure. Thanks. Well, aren’t I lucky?”
    She seats herself at the table. It’s not just me. She’s not used to this either, trying to construct canny discourse first thing in the morning. She’s also not accustomed to people waiting on her. I’m certainly not used to waiting on people. We are two familiar people interacting capriciously. Grandma picks up the Kingston Whig-Standard I’ve brought in from the front stoop. The coffee maker drips and hisses.
    â€œI just love the Kingston paper,” she says. “I like reading about where I am.”
    â€œYeah, they do have lots of local coverage, don’t they?” I look up and to the left, nodding. I want her to think I’m really, really, really considering all the local coverage.
    Grandma’s also brought her own paper, the Globe and Mail , from home. She sets it down on the table and removes her glasses from their soft leather case. It must be yesterday’s paper. She wouldn’t have had the chance to read it. I think I remember her telling me once that she never likes to miss the paper, not even for a day. She likes to know what’s going on.
    Once the water is pleasantly cold, I lean down and drink a mouthful straight from the tap. Then I fill her cup. Grandma accepts it and takes a wee pull. “Good water,” she says, nodding her approval. But she curls her lips around her teeth the way you do when it’s too cold. Grandma takes another sip, bigger this time. “Yes, quite tasty.”
    â€œIt really is good water, isn’t it?” I thought everybody liked water ice cold?
    â€œIt certainly is.”
    â€œIt’s funny,” I say, laughing a little louder than I need to, “I’ve always thought that about Kingston city water. It’s quality water. I’m glad you think so, too. Although I hear they have a bit of a blue-green algae issue. Nasty stuff, that.”
    Blue-green algae?
    The kitchen is quiet again, apart from the screeching coffee maker. I smile. Why isn’t it done yet? It never takes this long, does it? I look at the digital clock on the oven. We’ve been together now for nearly twenty-four hours. The longest stretch I’ve ever been one-on-one with my grandma. Surely I have more to say to her than my endorsement of