By Patrick Dunn

     When I was thirteen years old, Mom and Dad never stopped screaming, blaming me for their disaster marriage. It wasn’t my fault Dad had a gambling addiction. It wasn’t me who convinced Mom to day-trade our savings away. I had endless escape-fantasies.

     When Grandma called and asked me to spend a week with her in San Jose, I said “Yes” at light speed.

     I got to Grandma’s house, and she was waiting in the driveway—skinny, snow-white hair, Mary Jane shoes. She smelled like peppermint. Mom had said she taught physics at Stanford.

     Grandma asked me why I was late. “We’re going to miss the fun. And you need to have fun.”

     So, we jumped in her hissing Volkswagen Beetle and screeched out of the driveway. Whipped back against the seat and terrified at reality blurring past, I was calmed by Thomas Waller piano jazz blasting from the radio. Grandma told me she got the car after Christopher Walken stopped by to go surfing and needed cash. I asked for more celebrity stories. Once, she’d passed Tom Hanks in a San Jose airport. He’d smelled like vanilla.

     We went waterskiing—you could taste the salt in the wind. Sunlight scattered on the ocean. There were no arguments here. Just movement and laughter. Boredom and dissolved away because of Grandma. When I waterski, I can still see her on the waves.

   Grandma drove us to the Fourth Street Bowling alley. She showed me how to get a seven-ten split. Everything was causal, until an employee with the jet-black mustache of Tom Selleck was like, “Lady, you need to wear bowling shoes, or there’s gonna be a problem.” Grandma asked why Mary Janes weren’t good enough. You know how she was about those shoes. Selleck was talking about fining us. So, Grandma faked a heart attack. “There’s no way I’m dying in a bowling alley,” she Grandma. Selleck screamed for someone to call an ambulance.

     Out of breath laughing, we ran into the sunset, wrapped in fog, to the Beetle, to The Cheesecake Factory.

     While we ate club sandwiches. I talked about a girl from school I wanted to ask out, someone nice, cute. I was in pain that Mom and Dad didn’t talk about dating. But Grandma did.

     “Call her,” said Grandma. “You’ve got nothing to lose. I mean, she might think you’re weird and not talk to you again. Try anyway. And act fast. She might date some other guy. Or girl, not that there’s anything wrong with that.” True.

     Grandma told a waiter it was our birthday. Later, a flood of servers swept in bellowing “Happy Birthday,” carrying cakes with candle bonfires. It wasn’t my birthday, wasn’t her birthday. They didn’t charge us for the treats.

     “Use this trick at random,” said Grandma. “Never every time at the same place. And keep track of when you use it, okay?” I’ve used her trick in every Cheesecake Factory I’ve visited.

     High on heist excitement, we got extra dessert from McNeilson’s Ice Cream Truck. You know the one. It was run by that guy who looked like Steve Carell. His cones were such an addictive brain rush. He must have laced them with cocaine. I heard that he died last year in a Bahamas plane explosion. That’s disappointing. His ice cream was a vital ingredient of me learning to have a good time. I hate that Grandma couldn’t eat his ice cream anymore. She deserved it.

     Grandma’s favorite was his Rocky Road with fudge and those tiny chocolate chips. She said that when she was a kid, she bought the same snack after her 4a.m.-newspaper delivery route. I told her those jobs suck.

     “Never insult those jobs, Dennis,” she Grandma. “They build character. Hard work is the key, not day trading. Don’t day trade. It leads to divorce. Oh, call that girl now.”

     I used a payphone and called and asked her if she wanted to go on a date with me. “No way,” she said. “You’re a nerd. And I have my reputation to think about.” Before she could say anything else, I hung up.

     I told Grandma about the conversation. “In a year, she’ll realize how stupid she was not to date you,” she said. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Believe me. She missed nothing. When I was turned down, I wanted to jump in front of a train. Now, I’m glad we didn’t date: I heard she poisoned her first husband with a neurotoxin.

     Under moonlight, we pulled up to 7-11. Grandma flipped off a kid driving “up on our ass.”

     She went in, came out with beer. “Children of divorcing parents need alcohol,” she said.

     “Divorce?” I asked. “Thank God.”

     “Yes, thank God,” said Grandma. “Go on. Try it.”

     The moment the liquid touched my mouth, I spit a puddle of the stuff over the parking lot.

I told her beer sucks and asked if people really drink it.

     “Some people like it so much, they don’t want to stop. Remember to stop.”

     Because of that, I never touched alcohol again. I don’t want to be like Uncle Marty—R.I.P. I’m convinced Grandma saved my life.

     There was a message on her answering machine: Mom ordered me back home. Grandma said taking me away early was “Disappointing bullshit.”

     Later, at the airport, Grandma looked for Tom Hanks. He wasn’t in that day. Tears filled our eyes.

     Before I got on my plane, an emotional dam broke. Grandma held me close. We sobbed. “Before you know it, the arguing will stop,” she said. “Focus on having fun. Go bowling.”

     In less than a week, we’d bonded enough to have the privilege of feeling this miserable about needing to separate. But I knew how to have fun now. That was Grandma’s best lesson.

     You’ve probably noticed that I’m not there with you all. (Don’t worry. I’m wearing all black today.) I actually couldn’t go. Guilt’s been throttling me for weeks. That’s why I asked Uncle Fred to read this at the service. I think you should know why because I hope that’ll take this feeling away. I think I’ll lose my mind if I don’t. Please don’t hate me for what I’ve done. I’ll understand if you do, though.

     I’m the reason Grandma was there at the Fourth Street Bowling Alley. She was spending a gift card I mailed. No one could’ve known that would happen. It’s just so unfair that a heart attack killed her there, a place she didn’t want to die in. Was someone with her when she passed? I hope so. She didn’t deserve to be alone.

     I know that none of you talked to her by the end. I hope this shows you that she could be kind. Grandma taught me how to have fun. How to deal with emotional whirlwinds.

     I know she wanted to be buried in Mary Janes, with a McNeilson’s cup. Please do that for her. Then she can be up there with her favorite things.