“Thank you. See you tomorrow.”
I leave the reception area with a pep in my step. Smiling, I remember the nine-year-old boy who used to walk next to me to school as if he was my own personal bodyguard. He made it his mission to make me smile when all I wanted to do was cry because I had lost my mama. Grams and I moved to Montana when I was thirteen, and Max and I didn’t keep in touch. The boy I knew wasn’t a hothead. Sure, he had his fun, and never backed away from a challenge, but I wouldn’t have pegged him for one to skydive.
Ms. Henderson, the last patient I had today, exits the clinic at the same time I do. Her husband waits for her by his car and after kissing her cheek softly, opens the door f
or her. The look of awe and love in his eyes warms my heart. At the same time, it makes me aware of the unease that took residence in my chest months ago. Since I was a little girl, I wished for the kind of love the Hendersons share. But some people aren’t meant to have happy endings. My parents didn’t, and if the unused wedding dress in my closet is anything to go by, neither am I. My fiancé, Paul, canceled our wedding three weeks before D-day. That was six months ago, and part of me still can’t believe it.
On my way home, I stop by the store and buy the cheese crackers for Grams. Suddenly, I have a burning desire to talk to Grams about Max, but I’m not sure if she remembers him. On some days, she doesn’t even remember me. I resolve to test the waters when I get home and see how she feels first. Armed with crackers and a giddy happiness, I turn up the volume of the music in my car, pull my shoulder-length blonde hair up in a ponytail, and then wrap my jacket tighter around me, shuddering. My car’s heater died a few weeks back, and I don’t have the money to fix it yet. I earn a good paycheck as a physical therapist, but paying for rent and a caretaker for my grandmother eats up most of it. Grams’s pension helps with her medical bills. Drumming my fingers on the wheel to the rhythm of the music, I drive away.
Thirty minutes later, I walk inside the house, and Ms. Adams, my grandma’s caretaker, greets me.
“Thank God, you’re home.”
“What happened?”
“She’s not been herself the entire afternoon, and I haven’t managed to calm her down. You’re in for a rough evening. I honestly think it would be easier for you if she were in a home.”
The muscles in my back tense, and I roll my shoulders. I found a senior home a few hours away from San Francisco that would be cheaper than a full-time caretaker, but putting her in a home would just break my heart.
“No way. I’ll manage. Where is she?”
“In the backyard.”
“I’m going to her. I bought her favorite crackers. Thank you so much, Ms. Adams. Have a nice evening.”
“See you tomorrow, Emilia.”
After Ms. Adams leaves, I walk outside. Our backyard is small but full of flowers and plants. The back of the house also has a porch painted in dark green, with a couch and a swing. Grams is sitting on the couch, a vacant expression on her face. She snaps her head in my direction, leaping to her feet when she sees me. My grandmother is sixty-one, but her body is still sharp and quick. She always used to say, “Age is just a number. And it ain’t catching up with me.” Her silver hair frames her heart-shaped face.
“Violet, you’re home,” she exclaims.
I blink back tears. Violet was my mother’s name, but I’ve learned it’s best not to correct Grams; it just makes her confused and anxious. Grams loved my mama dearly, even though she was just her daughter-in-law. Mom got pregnant with me at sixteen. Her own parents kicked her out of the house so Grams, my dad’s mother who was a widow, took her in, and the three of us lived with her. Then after mama’s funeral, my asshole of a father decided parenthood wasn’t for him and disappeared off the face of the earth. Never saw him again. It’s just been Grams and me ever since.
Holding up the package, I say, “Brought you crackers.”
She tsk-tsks, shaking her head. “Don’t come home so late again tomorrow. You know what they say about girls who come home late, and I won’t have anyone speak ill about my daughter-in-law.”
I press my lips together, hating that my eyes are stinging with tears. I rack my brain, trying to come up with a way to bring Grams back to present day without upsetting her, when she surprises me.
“This house is beautiful, Emilia, darling. I’m so happy we found it.”
“Me too. I like our yard the best. It’s so peaceful.”
Grams doesn’t say anything for long, painful minutes, and when she speaks again, she shatters me anew. “I received a call from your principal today. He said you got into trouble again at school.”
A knot forms in my throat. There she is, slipping away from me again. Sometimes she mixes up people, sometimes time periods. It’s an emotional roller coaster.
“Let’s have dinner, okay?” I ask in a strangled voice.
I finally coax her into eating dinner, and afterward she showers. Just before she gets in her bed, I comb her hair, the way she did for me while I was growing up. The worst thing about her illness is that it’s episodic. Some days she’s her old self, some days she’s unrecognizable. After she goes to sleep, I pour myself a glass of wine and go out in the backyard, stretching on the bench. As I sip from my drink, my phone vibrates with an incoming message from Evelyn. She’s my other best friend, and she also works at the clinic. She’s not a physical therapist, but a psychotherapist. Some of our patients need that therapy in addition to the physical one, especially if they suffered grave injuries, or their careers have come to a halt—as is the case for professional sportsmen.
Evelyn: A friend of my sister’s says she might be interested in buying your wedding dress. I gave her your number.
“Oh.” Something painful twists in my chest at her words. This is a good thing, I tell myself. I need to get rid of it, and God knows I can use all the money in the world.
Emilia: Thanks.
Evelyn: You can celebrate getting rid of it by starting to date already. You know what they’re saying about plenty of fish being in the sea.