Ghost

The Whisp Sings - Winter Aid/Spiracle- Flower Face

When the ambulance came, she shook. It took numbness for her to open the door to them, to point them up the stairs to his silent room. She sat in the laundry room, squashed between the washer and the wall, listening as they took him from her. She would not say good-bye. it meant the possibility of a "Last Time." She had left him here on this island to rot. she should have been here, she should have spent that time of mourning with him. 

She sat in silence after McCawley found her. He told her what they told him. Her grandfather would be in the hospital on the mainland, and she would be able to see him in the morning to bring overnight things, and then, depending on his condition, once a day. This was fortunate, but her melancholy spirit was caused by not only the thought of the expense of ferry tickets, but also news of a storm blowing in to the island, which would make it impossible for her to travel altogether. 

That night, they did not eat. McCawley tended to the sheep, intending to spend the night on the couch. Roe began stripping her grandparents bed and set everything in a pile on the floor to be sorted through and washed, in order to prevent the sickness from spreading. 

When she picked up the quilt, she puzzled over the weight of it. She stood at the foot of the bed, holding it at arms length, trying to figure out if it had gotten heavier, or if she was so exhausted she was weak. In the end, she tossed it on the ground to be washed. 

Throughout the evening, Moray followed her around until she barked at him to leave her be and then he moped around in his room. She appeared in the doorway, looking in on him in the corner, where he was drawing in a little notebook. He set it down and waited on her. They stared at one another and then she was walking over to him. He gathered her in his arms like he was a blanket. They went to bed quiet and forlorn.

The next morning, Moray was wakened by a monstrous crash and a series of curses. Becoming aware that 1) there was a storm raging outside, and that 2) the ferry would not be open today, nor 3) likely tomorrow, he scrambled out of bed and down the stairs, coming face to back with an overturned pot of porridge on the floor, and a livid Roe scooping it up. She was wearing brown corduroy pants and a familiar dark blue and purple paisley sweater. her hair was up in a messy bun, neglected flyaways drifting out of the knot and rolling down her back. A crack of lightning made the gold in her ears flash. Her fingertips were bright, wet and red-pink as she struggled with the mess.

"Are ye gonna help or are ye gonna set there staring?" She asked in an exasperated tone. He jumped to her side, scooping porridge. 

"Are ye alright?" He asked sheepishly, looking at her indirectly. Her mouth was twisted into as thin a line as possible, and her brow was crinkled into a stress frown. This expression was increased in severity, as her freckles darkened creases that were not all there. 

"No. I'm not alright." She said bitterly. "My grandfather could be dying, like." Unsure of how to respond, he kept silent. The storm raged outside. They finished collecting and wiping up the porridge, and dumped it in the compost. She immediately began working on a new batch.

"Roe." He said. The cabinets were slammed shut, the container of oats slammed on the counter, the pot banged as she set it under the tap. "Roe, the thunder doesn't need your help."

Her head turned as though it was on a ball bearing, eyes flashing. Usually, she was reminiscent of  the sun reflecting on ocean waves. Now she was plasma itself. He squinted at her, and took the oat container, then looked at the clock. They had slept a total of four hours. 

"Will you please make us tea?" He said. Her gaze did not soften. In fact, she seemed harder than before. That was how he knew she was listening, because her stubbornness would not allow her to be soft. Not if it meant she would feel better about it all.