She glanced down at her friends note, rereading the words shed already memorized. Playing hearts at night and roasting marshmallows, swimming in the freezing lake . . .
She forced herself to look away. It didnt do any good in life to pine for what you couldnt have. Cloud had certainly taught her that lesson.
She put her own letter in an envelope, addressed it, then went downstairs to check on Gran, who was already asleep.
Alone, Tully watched her favorite Sunday night television programs—All in the Family, Alice, and Kojak—and then closed up the house and went to bed. Her last thought as she drifted lazily toward sleep was to wonder what the Mularkeys were doing.
The next morning she woke at her usual time, six oclock, and dressed for work. Sometimes, if she arrived early enough at the office, one of the reporters would let her help with the days stories.
She hurried down the hall and tapped on the last door. Though she hated to wake her grandmother, it was the house rule. No leaving without a goodbye. "Gran?"
She tapped again and pushed the door open slowly, calling out, "Gran . . . Im leaving for work. "
Cool lavender shadows lay along the windowsills. The samplers that decorated the walls were boxes without form or substance in the gloom.
Gran lay in bed. Even from here, Tully could see the shape of her, the coil of her white hair, the ruffle of her nightdress . . . and the stillness of her chest.
"Gran?"
She moved forward, touched her grandmothers velvet, wrinkled cheek. The skin was cold as ice. No breath came from her slack lips.
Tullys whole world seemed to tilt, slide off its foundation. It took all her strength to stand there, staring down at her grandmothers lifeless face.
Her tears were slow in forming; it was as if each one were made of blood and too thick to pass through her tear ducts. Memories came at her like a kaleidoscope: Gran braiding her hair for her seventh birthday party, telling her that her mommy might show up if she prayed hard enough, and then years later admitting that sometimes God didnt answer a little girls prayers, or a grown womans, either; or playing cards last week, laughing as Tully swept up the discard pile—again—saying, "Tully, you dont have to have every card, all the time . . . "; or kissing her goodnight so gently.
She had no idea how long she stood there, but by the time she leaned over and kissed Grans papery cheek, sunlight had eased through the sheer curtains, lighting the room. It surprised Tully, that brightness. Without Gran, it seemed this room should be dark.
"Come on, Tully," she said.
There were things she was supposed to do now; she knew that. She and Gran had talked about this, done things to prepare. Tully knew, though, that no words could have really prepared her for this.
She went over to Grans nightstand, where a pretty rosewood box sat beneath the photo of Grandpa and alongside the battalion of medications.
She lifted the lid, feeling vaguely like a thief, but Gran expected this of her. When I go Home, Gran always said, Ill leave you something in the box Grandpa bought me.
Inside, laying atop the cluster of inexpensive jewelry that Tully could rarely remember her Grandmother wearing, was a folded piece of pink paper with Tullys name written on it.
Slowly, she reached out, took the letter, and opened it.
My dearest Tully—
I am so sorry. I know how afraid you are of being alone, of being left behind, but God has His plan for all of us. I would have stayed with you longer if I could have. Your grandfather and I will always be watching out for you from Heaven. You will never be alone if you believe in that.
You were the greatest joy of my life.
Love, Gran
Were.
Gran was gone.
Tully stood outside the church, watching the crowd of elderly people stream past her. A few of Grans friends recognized her and came over to offer their condolences.
Im so sorry dear . . .
. . . but shes in a better place . . .
. . . with her beloved Winston.