Four-year-old Micah was on the brink of emotional meltdown. He had arrived in Scotland, with his parents, the day before where the time difference from California was twelve hours. The six of us were brain dead, bleary-eyed and Micah’s whine was mushrooming into a fine-pitched wail.
“Micah, do you want to go to the market up the street?” I entreated. “ I’ll buy you something.”
“What will you buy me?” He asked with a sidelong stare, his meltdown in flimsy abeyance.
“Anything for 99 pence or less.” I enticed.
“Okay.” He said, reaching for his turquoise rain jacket. I patted myself on the back.

I took my grandson’s plump, milky hand and we walked up the steep cobblestone hill from our Sterling rental Flat. The damp wind tousled Micah’s blaze orange hair. Just up the block, past the ancient cast-iron cannons we entered the cramped, compact shop. Micah went directly to the refrigerated section while I surveyed Scottish biscuits and other cheap items of interest.
“Can I have water?” He asked regarding me.
I looked where he pointed, at the small, clear bottle of water, and felt a pang of sadness for my grandson. His organic California parents had him so well trained that he thought a bottle of water was a treat.
“Okay,” I answered as he plucked the bottle from the shelf, smiling. We took it to the middle-aged woman who sat on a stool at the cash register and, in her Scottish brogue she asked, “And where are you from?”
“Menlo Park,” Micah answered. “California,” I added, not bothering to mention that I was from Virginia. “I’m four.” Micah told her.
“Ooooh, look at that hair!”
I smiled and, nodding, took Micah’s hand. We said our goodbyes and stepped out the door.

We got back to the flat just as Poppy was climbing down the steep steps from the flat. “Let’s walk downtown.” He said to me. “Micah, do you want to come with us? Your mom and dad said it was okay.”
“Can I bring my water with me?” He asked gripping it.
“Sure. Let’s go.”

At the center of Sterling we stopped at a quaint cafe for a coffee. After settling in a small, brown leather booth Micah asked eagerly, “Can I drink my water now”?
“Sure,” I said, again thinking: man these kids have raised him right. I was impressed.
Micah twisted off the cap and we heard the psssst. He raised the bottle to his lips, closed his luminous blue eyes, and took a sip. A look of ecstasy spread across his face. Man, I thought, I sure did something wrong. What did Dirk and Emily do to have their kid go into raptures over a bottle of water?

Just then I got a faint whiff of something sugary. And apple-y. And sickeningly sweet. I sniffed and sniffed again. Frowning, I stared at the people in the adjoining booths. All were drinking coffee. Scott was sipping his and Micah was savoring his water—still with an orgasmic look on his face. “Micah, let me see that water a minute.” I said reaching for the bottle. I inhaled deeply and was assaulted by the unnatural saccharine smell of apple candy. Raising the bottle, eye level, I studied the ingredients: artificial flavor, preservatives, and aspartame… “Oh great.” I said to Scott. “I can’t believe this. Dirk will kill me. Smell this,” I handed him the bottle-- thinking back to the bottle opening ‘psssst’ that should have tipped me off.
“Okay, Micah, you’ve probably had enough water, now.” I said. “ Let’s save the rest for later.” Poppy screwed the lid back on, and handed the bottle back to Micah who clutched it to his chest.

As soon as we got back to the flat, I said to my son,
“Look, Dirk, today I bought Micah-- what I thought was-- a bottle of water. The bottle was plain and the liquid was clear. It turned out to be apple-flavored, aspartame water. I had no idea. It was an honest mistake.” Dirk nodded, jet-lagged, and—in the process of helping Micah off with his jacket—magically confiscated the bottle.

The next day Micah’s disintegration happened at about the same time. He’d been awake much of the night. “Micah, you want to go to that shop again? Gee Dee will buy you something. Something 99 pence or less.” I added.
Micah went promptly to fetch his turquoise raincoat.
We hiked up the street and I plotted my strategy. As soon as we entered the shop, I would seize the biscuits. They looked like cookies. What child would choose water over cookies? The minute we stepped into the tight little shop I darted to the biscuits. Micah’s sturdy, stout legs strode directly to the refrigerated section. “Can I have water? He asked.
“No, how ‘bout some of these cookies?” I waved two boxes in a manner I hoped was enticing, adding some Mmmmmm sounds, and conjuring a rapturous look on my face. He gave me the briefest glance before staring back at the water. “Can’t I have water?” He asked again.
“Nah, let’s get cookies this time.”
“I don’t want cookies. I want water.” There was a tremor in his throat.
“Your dad doesn’t want me to get you that kind of water.” I said.
“But I want water.” The quaver in his voice was increasing.
“Micah, your dad will be angry with me. Do you want your dad to be angry with Gee Dee?” I pleaded, pitifully.
I waved around a different box of biscuits and then another. Micah’s lip began to quiver. I found a box of chocolate covered ones, then a bigger box, then one well beyond 99 pence… Micah was unwavering. A wail was percolating. His eyes were glued to that water. The exact water, of course, as yesterday. I looked at him and reluctantly accepted grandmotherly defeat. We were, after all, foreigners in a public place. I got out my coins.

When we got back to the flat, Dirk studied the bottle of water in Micah’s grip, and then stared at me in disbelief. “Look, he was about to have a meltdown in the store.” I said wearily. I pulled Dirk aside and lowered my voice. “We don’t have to let him drink it. Dad got a bottle of club soda last night. We can dump Micah’s drink and fill his bottle with that.” Dirk nodded, assuaged. “Micah, let’s put your water in the refrig. for later,” I said.

That afternoon while Micah napped, Dirk and I dumped his ‘apple’ water and refilled the bottle with Poppy’s club soda. At dinner that night Micah asked expectantly, “Can I have my water with my dinner?” Dirk and I nodded, stifling smiles.

Micah got the bottle out of the refrig and twisted off the cap. Pssst. He closed his eyes in anticipatory bliss. I gazed down at my plate and, with peripheral vision, watched him take a deep sip. Then he pulled the bottle from his lips and studied it, frowning. I glued my eyes on my pasta and salad, away from Micah and away from Dirk. I chewed my food. “How is it?” Dirk asked Micah, with a twinkle in his eye. I snuck a quick peek at Micah. His brow was furrowed and he looked perplexed. “Good…?” his voice rose as though asking a question. He contemplated the bottle, turning it around and around, then set it down. I forked some more pasta, biting my lip. Dirk looked at me, goading me, but I refused to look up, gulped back a chuckle and bit my lip harder.

I glanced up at Micah’s look of confusion and my giggle vanished. It was swept away by a tugging pain in my heart. The realization dawned on me that I had created a bad solution to apple water and meltdowns.
Tomorrow, I would take my beloved grandson to a toy store. And I’d cough up more than 99 Pence. And I would work, in future, to improve my grandmotherly skills of preemption.

I followed my big sister down the first three basement steps to the dim landing that shelved some rows of canned goods, before we turned toward the right, ducked our heads, and climbed down the remaining flight to the gray, concrete floor below. A few aluminum shop lights dangled on black cords from the low ceiling illuminating the whitewashed, pockmarked, plaster walls. To the left of the steps was our father’s perfectly ordered work-shop and to the right—where weeks before I had been shattered to learn that there was “no Santa Claus”-- stood a Mahogany Console, 24”, RCA, black and white television set, containing channels 10, 3, and 6 --where ‘Sally Star’ would soon be on. Beyond the television was our ping-pong table. The basement air was dank and cold—one of our parents’ ploys to keep us from watching too much T.V.. The furnace rumbled, laboring to heat the two floors above of our Pennsylvania Dutch Colonial.

A conglomeration of winter boots was paired up on three shelves a few feet from the foot of the stairs. I headed past them and over to the ping-pong table where, regretfully, I was about to get clobbered by my sister; my skills, reflexes, and competitive gene being no match for her own. But she said we were going to play ping-pong, so we were going to play ping-pong. Leila was ten and I was eight.

My sister stopped to grab a pair of boots; the floor was already numbing her skinny bare feet. She grabbed a pair of round-toed, black rubber, fur-lined boots. The boots zipped from the instep up to the mid-shin, which was trimmed with an inch of gray fur. They were my mother’s boots, the kind that went over the shoes, the kind that must have been stylish in 1960. Out of a box I dug two wooden paddles, each backed with a slab of green pimpled rubber, while my sister forced her foot into the first boot. “The lining is all wadded up,” she spat, stomping her foot hard on the floor. (She wasn’t known for her patience). With a grunt of disgust she stood up and mustered her insignificant body weight to the task of pulverizing the lining fur. She trounced with all her might but her bony body did not have the heft to match her will.

Angry now, she dropped onto the bottom step, yanked the boot off and reached in with her determined hand to manually manipulate the lining. And that’s when her blood-curdling screams began. My palms shot to my ears and pressed, heart racing. My head jerked toward Leila just as she flew up the steps, shrieking. I stood rooted and bewildered while surveying the boot on its side next to the bottom step. Nothing appeared to be worthy of abject terror. With clenched stomach I studied the wad of gray fur next to the boot. And that’s when I saw it: The crushed, squashed, trampled and stomped-to-death corpse of a hefty gray mouse.