Heat crawled up my skin, racing from my gut to my cheeks. Light speared through the window beside me and crossed the dinner table in dusty golden bars. Broccoli mulch spewed from Grandpa’s twitching mouth. He squinted at my father.

“I’ve read that bill and it’s a hundred times better than anything Bush ever put through!” He said. The broccoli pulp foamed.

“Well, actually, Bob…” Dad said, “…you read the summary. The real healthcare bill is 10,000 pages long. There is so much crap in it, there’s no way anyone could...” The pitch of his no-nonsense voice strained up an octave. You could smell the smoke of battle settling. The first shot had been fired.

Oh my god, Dad, why the hell?

I widened my eyes at him. He seemed not to notice and waved away my assertive offer of more roast beef. Message sent - definitely not message received.

At the table’s end, Grandma picked and prodded at the two boiled carrots on her plate – the only thing she had said that she wanted. She didn’t say anything now. She rarely does anymore. Mom petted her matted curls and, whispering, encouraged her to take another bite. She shot Dad an over-the-shoulder glare – a clear warning.

“The United States does less to help its own people than anywhere else in the world –” Grandpa roared now.
“Well, Bob, in the case of insurance, it’s just more complicated than that.”

The icy dew on my water glass dripped down my clenched fingers. Grandma’s cloudy eyes hung on the tablecloth – lightless, completely tuned out.

I jerked my head in another, more obvious warning at my father. Please, Dad…for the love of God…not now!

Dad’s steely blue eyes were still focused on Grandpa.

“If you actually looked at the budget,” he said, “you would see that the bill just doesn’t –”

Something thudded underneath us, quivering the glass angel centerpieces and clinking my glass against my teeth. Dad jumped, glancing at my mom. She pursed her lips and his tan face suddenly flushed.

Message received. He cleared his throat and mumbled out a satisfactorily ambiguous reply to my grandfather. I released the long-building, sickeningly captive breath.

Grandma sighed. In a warbly murmur she told my mom she was done with dinner and wanted to go back to bed.

Grandpa’s beady eyes lost their sharpness as his gaze moved away from Dad and towards her slumping frame. He lumbered out of his chair. His big, callused hand braced under her arm.

“C’mon now, Shari,” he said gently. I watched as the six-foot, ex-drill-sergeant, Vietnam vet carefully led my shuffling, wasted grandmother around the corner to the back bedroom. Mom sniffed, the sun highlighting a faint, shining line down her cheek. Dad dropped his eyes.

My own rested again on Grandma’s plate.

The two carrots were still lying there.

By Alex Newman