Enamored

Chapter Three

My grandmother sits on her bed and watches me as I feverishly write out all of the plans we've made so far. "Emmy dear."

Finishing the sentence I'm writing, I raise my head. "Yes?"

"What flowers do you plan on having at your wedding?"

"Purple tulips, and black pansies, why?" I reply.

"I just wanted to make sure whatever flowers we use at my funeral wouldn't be the same as your wedding. I wouldn't want to taint such a special day with a reminder like that."

Any attempt to stop her from saying such negative things is fruitless. My grandmother has excepted her nearing death. I might as well help plan the funeral she wants while she's still alive. 

"So what flowers should we have?" I ask posing my pen over my paper once more. 

"Are you sure you want black pansies?" She askes wrinkling her nose, ignoring my question completely. "I mean white is traditional for weddings. 

Huffing I drop the pen and rub the back of my neck. "Yes. I have it all planned out. The colors for the wedding are black and purple. I will still be wearing white, as will John."

"I see," my grandmother nods. "Have you made one of those presentation boards that you make for things like this yet? You've always had a better imagination than me and I would love to have a visual." 

"I have," I say giving a strained smile. "I can have some servants bring down everything I've put together so far." 

"Lovely."

"Right," I say trapping my pen. "Let's finish up these plans, so I can make sure to have them submitted to the Court." 

"What is there left to plan?" She asks looking over at the slightly precarious stacks of folders I have accumulated in planning for her death party.

"Mostly decor stuff. Seating chart, theme, flowers, and how you would like your ashes dealt with. Along with some rules about the publicity of this event." 

I use the word event cautiously. I have a difficult time bringing myself to use the word funeral. 

After hearing me list off what we need to do my grandmother only nods and gazes out the window. 

Soon after we found out she wasn't going to get well, the grand dining room of the Gratitude Mansion has been transformed into one giant sickbed. 

The dining room is on the second floor with a window that takes up the entirety of one wall, looking over the estate, with a perfect view of the lake that I spent many summers splashing around it.

It was always her favorite room in the house.

As December begins all the trees have lost their leaves and the luscious green grass has been dulled to a bland yellow soon to be covered by snow for months.

She doesn't look away from the window when she speaks. "We aren't going to be able to stop people from wearing black. So it's best if we have flowers that will at least match. Sunflowers, I think. That'll be best."

I write down the request and make note to have a dress code. 

I don't blame my grandmother for staring out the window almost all hours of the day. It's better than the sight of her room. The bed she lays in, the one she will probably never move from, is huge. I would need a step-latter to simply climb up. 

The mattress is the size of the grand dining table that was once in this room. It's a monstrosity of a thing; its only use is to hide the machines. Below the bed skirts are plastic boxes pumping out fluid, nutrients, and oxygen. All of which are being used as a final attempt to keep her alive.