One Last Thing ✅

twenty-three things

At dinner, I awkwardly try to eat using only my right hand without spilling tomatoes and cheese bits everywhere. The sight of the beef that had seemed appetizing before makes my stomach do somersaults, but I manage to eat a bite or two.

"St. Stephens called earlier," Grams says. "They're going to collect donations for your—for the hospital bills."

Ugh.

I can just picture it now, Father Chris standing up before the whole congregation and asking everyone to look into their hearts and see if they can find the kindness to part with a few dollars to help me and Grams through this tough time. There will be whispers. Rumors. And when I return, all eyes will be on me, and I'll be expected to thank everyone for their charity.

I must have a pinched expression on my face because Grams throws me a stern look. "It's very generous of them. You should be thankful."

"I am," I say, not meaning it.

"We'll send a thank you note," Grams says. "Oh, and Missy Evans sent over an apple pie. I'll get it." She pats her mouth with her napkin and then leaves the table.

Missy Evans. Rose's mother. She runs the Sunday school at our church, and she makes a point to bake a pie every time someone has a baby or dies. Actually, she spends a lot more time gossiping than praying—that I've seen anyway. I guess now she'll have to add baking for a murderer to her busy to-do list.

Grams returns with the pie. She sets it on the table, along with two small plates, and cuts a couple of slices. When she places one in front of me, I use my spoon to scrape off some of the flaky crust on the side. I shovel it into my mouth.

It tastes like sawdust and pity.

Grams nibbles at her pie until she's eaten approximately one-third of the piece. She then releases a tiny belch and covers her mouth. "Excuse me."

"I'm really tired," I say, poking at my mostly uneaten pie.

"Of course, Lil," Grams says.

I wait for her to ask me to rinse off my plate and put it in the dishwasher, but she doesn't. She swoops away all the dirty dishes and returns with a wet rag to wipe away the crumbs I've scattered all over the table. I feel like a two-year-old and wonder how long it will be before I can do the simplest tasks for myself.

When she's finished cleaning up, my grandmother helps me climb the stairs. I stand awkwardly in the middle of my room while my grandmother searches my drawers for a t-shirt big enough to go over my sling. Finally she finds a ratty old Pink Floyd shirt that I stole ages ago from Jared, and I push my right arm through the armhole. My left remains clutched to my chest beneath the shirt.

Grams helps me into bed, pulls my quilt over me, props pillows behind me.

"Do you think..." I say, feeling childish. "Do you think you could sing to me?"

Her face softens, and for a second I feel like it's okay to act like a child. Maybe I've spent too many years trying to pretend nothing could ever touch me. Perhaps there are times in life when you just have to give in and let others take care of you; otherwise you might shrivel up until you disappear altogether.

Gingerly, she perches next to me and caresses my forehead.

"Sure."

Grams opens her mouth and begins to sing. It's a song she used to sing when I was little, about mermaids and rainbows and dreams coming true. Never has it failed to lull me to sleep.

Until now.

My eyes are wide open, and the room sharpens into focus.

A thought keeps buzzing around my head, and I can't swat it away.

"Grams?" I ask when she's finished.

"Yes?"

"When my mother... did what she did..." Those are the words we use in this house. Nothing direct, nothing that actually means anything. We skirt around the stuff that makes us uncomfortable. We squint our eyes until everything blurs into one pleasant, fuzzy picture and we can't see the bad things anymore.

My grandmother stiffens.

"Yes?" Grams says, her word little more than a breath.

I steel myself. "Did you... I mean, did you have any idea she was so unhappy? Was she acting depressed?"

Growing up, I spent a lot of time staring at that picture of my mother, holding me when I was a baby. I looked at the photo, and I wondered how it was possible that someone who felt all the love that was evident in her face could turn into such a hateful person that she'd want to end her own child's life.

My life.

It just doesn't make any sense to me.

Grams waits so long to speak that I almost jump when she finally responds. "She kept her thoughts to herself. After the episode... I tried to think back, see if I'd missed anything. But there was nothing. That I could think of, anyway."

I squeeze my eyes closed.

"Are you okay, Lil?"

I flirt with the idea of telling the truth. No, I'm not okay. I'm far from okay. But my instinct to put on a neutral (if not happy) face kicks in, and I open my eyes and nod. "Almost time for my meds?"

Grams looks visibly relieved.

Medication she can handle.

She leaves the room to fetch the little orange bottle of pills and is back in a blink, shaking two little white ovals into her hand. I open my mouth, and she sets them gently on my tongue. Then she grabs the glass of water and holds it to my lips. One gulp, two, and the pills are inside me. I can hardly wait for them to work.

I want to be numb.

I want to be gone.