Ghosts we leave behind

chapter 1; house rules

People grieve in different ways. According to Kübler-Ross, the last stage of grief is acceptance, but my grandmother, Eleanor, is nowhere near it. It's been months since my grandfather's death, and she's still stubbornly stuck in denial. 

I haven't seen her in person since grandad passed. Phone calls are few and far between, and she avoids most family attempts to check on her. But after my mother's call saying Eleanor has started shutting everyone out, I know it's time for me to visit. Ben can't come yet, but he'll join us later. So, I make my way to the house Eleanor and Henry shared for over forty years.

As I approach the house, a knot tightens in my chest. The place hasn't changed much, but I immediately notice the overgrown garden, once so lovingly cared for. The flowers and herbs my grandmother planted have grown wild and tangled, creeping over each other like they're suffocating the space. The trees, which used to provide cool, comforting shade, now stretch up with bony branches, casting long, eerie shadows in the dreary weather.

It's clear she's let things go.

I grimace at the sight of dirt crusting the outdoor chairs. They haven't been used in a while, and it's painfully obvious. I ring the doorbell twice, shifting my weight and listening closely. The house is silent. A crow caws loudly from a tree branch overhead, its black eyes following my every movement. Its squawk feels like an omen. I've been watching too many horror movies again.

Finally, the door creaks open, startling me. Eleanor stands there, struggling to pull it fully open. Her frail hands tug at the door, and with a final yank, she steps aside to let me in.

"Hi, Grandma," I greet her, trying to inject warmth into my voice despite the heaviness in the air.

Her hair, once auburn, is now fully gray, pulled back into a loose bun. She wears a baggy, faded blue sweater over a plain dress, her eyes distant and clouded.

"Nora," she says, her voice soft and distracted. She touches my hair briefly, as if trying to recall something. "You're here."

I hug her gently, startled by how fragile she feels in my arms. She's lost so much weight, and I can't help but worry. "I missed you," I say, pulling back slightly to grab the suitcases I've hauled up the front steps.

She glances at the bags, looking slightly puzzled. "Ben's flight is at the end of the month," I remind her. "He'll be joining us then."

She nods absentmindedly and gives me a little space as I drag my things inside. The house feels smaller than I remember, though it hasn't changed much. The leather armchair in the living room sits untouched, like a shrine. It was my grandfather's favorite spot.

I follow Eleanor into the kitchen, where she's already preparing cucumber sandwiches. The kitchen feels cramped, more so than it should. The table is cluttered with old mail and dirty cups, and there's a faint smell of something stale hanging in the air.

"You must be hungry," she says, her hands moving slowly as she pulls together the sandwiches.

"Oh, Nan, you don't have to—"

"Nonsense," she cuts me off, her voice firm but weary. "It's not much, but it'll do."

I settle at the small kitchen table as she places a plate of sandwiches and two cups of water in front of me. She sits beside me, her movements stiff, almost robotic. I watch her as we eat, worry gnawing at me. She's barely touching her food, more like picking at it without noticing.

"How's Mom?" I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Eleanor stiffens, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. She puts it down slowly. "Fine, I suppose," she mutters.