Keychains ✔

XIII

Content warning: This chapter has lots of verbal abuse, manipulation and gaslighting that might be triggering. If you feel uncomfortable reading it, skip to the end where I've provided a summary. 

The hospital monitor beeped out of sync with the frantic pace of my heart. I watched from the glass door outside. Dad stood off to one side, rubbing his forehead while still in his work clothes. Mom whispered in Grandpa's ear, stroking his head. Grandpa's oxygen mask was connected to the extensive machinery hooked up next to him. His empty promise echoed in my skull. I should've been smarter, should've read between the lines. I'd vowed not to let Grandpa give up on life.

That was before I found Grandpa. On the kitchen floor. Barely breathing. A shattered cup of coffee beside him. Alone. All because I'd stayed over at school to listen to a therapist talk about mental well-being and how helping others made a real difference in the world. Suddenly university was a million years away instead of two.

Behind me the glass door slid open again. "Nora," Dad said hoarsely, "do you want to come in?"

I risked another glance inside. My eyes locked with Mom's. They weren't as red as they were flinty blue fire. I froze in place until one of her friends moved in the way. They patted Mom's shoulder, shook their heads with pity, blurred their faces with talk of reassurances. Their bright clothes and painted nails were the only reason I recognized them from my visions. I'd never seen them in person.

"I'll stay here," I mumbled.

"Then let's get out of here."

Was he crazy? Mom was going to throw a fit when she sniffed the cigar fumes clinging onto his work clothes.

I followed him anyway, saying a silent goodbye to Grandpa.

The city roar greeted us outside. Fat drops of rain splashed on my hoodie. I ignored Dad's offer with his umbrella. For such a big city you'd think Toronto was always on the move. Streetcars and news helicopters and rain-sodden commuters. But Dad and I were the only ones in sight who moved at all. Instead of going to our car, we stood under an alcove that faced the hospital's parking lot. I shoved my hands in my pockets and shivered.

Dad put a cigar to his lips. Wisps of smoke blended in with the dull sky. He blew out a cloud. A practised gesture. Natural. The nicotine haze was always lingering in his key's memories.

Why hadn't Grandpa's key told me anything, then? I stifled a sob. Grandpa was doing so well. He'd gone at least six months without being bed-ridden. He even took strolls around the neighbourhood, provided he had his cane and myself for company. All I had seen in his key were snippets of hope. If I'd pieced them together to make the bigger picture, if I'd bothered to connect the dots, I could have accepted that Grandpa was lying to himself. He wasn't as strong as I hoped he would be. Surely somebody in this household was stronger than an antique vase or a compliant lapdog? Not me. Anyone but me. University, quiet dorm rooms and backbreaking assignments were waiting for me. I had a future--unlike the rest of the MacIntyre family.

I felt sick knowing I had thrown myself at the books. I had studied not because I was a hard worker, but because it eased the dread of returning home each day. It forced my brain to ignore the obvious and piece together abstract concepts of algebra, electrons and economics. But the clues had always been there.

Curling the ends of my ponytail into my fist, I gritted my teeth. It could have been so easy. Give up a few days of assignments and club commitments to be there for Grandpa, instead of viewing home through the lens of my Unlocking. Behind my shut eyes, the image of a dying star came to mind.