When my Icelandic grandmother, my amma, was in her early eighties, my mom took her to the doctor for a check-up. By then, Amma was hard of hearing and had Alzheimer’s. She didn’t catch what the doctor said. “He says everything looks good, Margrét,” repeated my mom, nearly shouting. “He says you’re going to live another twenty years!”Article continues after advertisement
Amma was silent for a beat; my mom thought maybe she hadn’t heard or hadn’t understood. But slowly the corners of her eyes creased into a smile. “Did you get it in writing?”
This was Amma: witty, a little mischievous, always seated at the kids’ table. She spent hours playing gas station and hide-and-seek with my brother and me, seeming never to tire of chasing us on the wraparound porch. She watched Saved by the Bell with me after school; Zack Morris reminded her of my dad when he was young. She let me play with her adding machine and Royal Copenhagen porcelain figurines while my brother waged war on the living room floor with green-and-brown plastic army guys. She spoke English to us, except when she muttered Icelandic expletives under her breath, or when she got off the phone with her sister in Reykjavík and was laughing so hard she didn’t know which language was which.
