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insurance papers describe the Twilight Years—the phase when you’re too old to work but too young to drop dead—as potentially the best years of your life. Old people can finally reap the benefits of what they’ve sown—children, retirement pensions, social security, friendships— unless they’re like my grandma, a friendless money squanderer whose children can’t stand her. She used to be tactful and friendly, but that façade wore away years ago, morphing into paranoia mixed with suicidal comments.
    “I’m so tired of living,” she sighs over the phone.
    “Come on, it’s not that bad. You have like twenty years left. Why don’t you go to church, or volunteer somewhere?”
    “I’m too old to go to church,” she complains.
    My grandma’s an Evangelist who watches ladies with pancake makeup and blue hair preach about Jesus. She donates to TBN, so sales representatives fill her answering machine with messages. I guess she likes the social interaction. When someone faints on stage during Sunday worship, claiming to be cured, she’s really touched. Her version of Faith is an understanding that as long as she only goes outside to check the mailbox, God will continue to deliver Social Security checks.
    My mom and I are packing up Grandma’s belongings because she’s moving into a nursing home. Mom says she’s not officially senile, but she can’t live alone anymore. The apartment smells fishy. The old blue carpet is crunchy with dried crumbs of canned cat food. Years of grease are smeared on the stovetop. The oven is a closet full of pots and pans she couldn’t wash. I clear out the kitchen cabinets, filling trash bags with Tupperware and old plastic forks and spoons. There are about 400 ketchup packets in the drawer by the sink.
    Grandma’s in the bedroom instructing my mom what to pack or throw away. Every few minutes she calls to me, “You haven’t thrown anything away, have you?”
    “I’m just boxing stuff,” I yell back as I tie up two more trash bags. I put a few things in open boxes to prove I didn’t chuck everything.
    Back in the bedroom, there’s a pile of old bras that Mom wants to toss out. Grandma’s so mad she’s crying.
    “These are my things, why are you telling me what to do with them?”
    “These bras are from the ’60s. I’ll get you new ones,” Mom says.
    The only way to get packed is to put her in another room. I bring her out to her beloved armchair.
    “Stay out of this,” she tells me.
    Mom and I unclog a closet while Grandma sorts magazines in the living room. I find a jewelry box. It’s full of rhinestone brooches, gold-plated clip-on earrings, with some fine things mixed in—a strand of pearls, lapis lazuli bracelet, small diamond pendant, and two tarnished rings.
    “That’s my great-grandfather’s old ring,” my mom says. “I always wanted it.”
    “What’s this one?” I ask, attracted to the ruby.
    “That was your great-grandmother’s,” Mom says.
    “You should have it,” she adds, under her breath as if it’s an illegal thought.
    “You take that one,” I say. We’re excited to have real family heirlooms. They’re rare in our family. We slide the rings into our purses.
    “What are you two doing in there?” Grandma calls, and I take the jewelry box out to show her.
    “Here’s your jewelry. I’m putting it in your carry-on.”
    “You should never have touched that! It’s none of your business.” She grabs the box and rummages through to see what’s missing.
    “We’re here to help, and you accuse us of thievery. That’s it!” I yell, heading outside to smoke a cigarette. But first I pull the ring out of my purse and put it on so she can see. She’s too busy looking into the box to notice.
    “Just get out,” she calls after me. “I’m sorry you have such a bitch for a mother.”
    I have absolutely no faith that some god will redeem my grandma for her ill manners, but at the same time, I don’t think she’ll burn in hell. I do