I didn’t want to accept defeat. I didn’t want to need his ride. I didn’t want to need his comfort. But I did. At that moment, he could understand.
“Okay, I guess,” I croaked out.
“Good.”
I kept my back to him. “I’ll just run home and change then.”
“Are you sure? I can drive you. It’s no problem.” Again his tone was relaxing like lavender oil.
“No,” I sniffled. “I’d rather just run.” And run and run and run.
“All right then. I’ll pick you up in, say, thirty minutes? Is that enough time?”
I turned slightly toward him now. “Yeah, that’s fine. And Mr. Brockwell…” His name broke in my throat. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to collapse into the warmth of his hugs. I wanted to purge everything I’d been holding back from everyone and everything onto him. But as I opened my mouth to speak again, only a slight squeaking sound emerged.
“I understand,” he whispered. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”
I nodded, and then began the ten-minute run home. I ran it in eight.
Chapter Seventeen
A horrible feeling of déjà vu swept over me as Mr. Brockwell and I walked into the hospital. I tried to push the sensation out of me as we rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. The doctor I had spoken to earlier was standing at one of the nurse’s stations near my grandmother’s room.
He spotted me walking toward him. “Good, you’re here.” He snapped a patient chart shut and faced me.
“What do you mean?” My throat was instantly dry.
“You got my phone call?”
I felt like he was talking in code. Then I realized I didn’t even grab my phone or my purse, only my house keys. “What phone call?” My voice was tight and high.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.” He waved a hand for me to follow and walked toward my grandmother’s room.
Please don’t let her be on her deathbed. I felt my palms and forehead begin to sweat. My head was in a haze as we entered her room. With Mr. Brockwell close behind me, I was bracing myself for the worst. But when her bed came into view, I locked eyes with her.
“Grandma?” My voice was barely audible.
“Marissa, come give me a hug,” she whispered. I crossed to her and buried my head in her chest. My tears were soaking her hospital gown. “There, there, Marissa. Everything’s going to be all right.” She held me close.
I peeled myself off her, suddenly worried I was hurting her. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “She’ll need to be monitored for a while. We need to take her for an MRI to see the complete effects the stroke had on her.”
I still didn’t like his tone. It sounded like he was ordering breakfast or something.
“Hank? Is that you hiding over there?” Gram said.
“Beverly,” he began. “This isn’t quite how I wanted to run into you again.” He crossed the floor and gave her a gentle hug.
“It’s not how I wanted to bump into you either.” My grandmother’s tone was attempting to be jovial, but she was straining at it. She could only hold her smile for a second before whatever pain she was feeling washed itself over her face again.
“Mr. Brockwell drove me. He didn’t want me to get in an accident or whatever,” I babbled.
“Thank you, Hank,” Gram said.
“No problem, Beverly.” They exchanged a passive look, like they each knew the other was thinking about only one thing: my mom.
****
The memorial service for my mom was small. It was at our house. Gram had bought some deli plates from the local market. I couldn’t get over how surreal the whole thing was. People were in my house, all dressed in their best funeral attire, eating cold cuts and looking at pictures of my mom from the photo albums Gram had set out. It was like the house was a museum or something. People told stories about the time my mom did this and the time my mom did that. Through some of her old college friends, I learned that my mom staged a walk-out for no apparent reason, and she spent the night in jail because of it.
Marc walked around giving everyone what I liked to call his “death” eyes. He stared them all down as if trying to let them know with just his eyes they weren’t welcome, and he wanted them gone. Gram hustled and bustled like a gracious hostess. She made sure people’s drinks were filled and that they had enough to eat. I had begged her several times to let me go to my room, but she said it was impolite. The point of a memorial service, she explained, was so the mourners could be close to the person who passed and their family for a while. But I was mourning too, and I just wanted to go to my room, turn on some music, and cry myself to sleep.
I bumped into Mr. Brockwell — to me, he was Hank back then — in the kitchen. He was taking some meatballs out of a slow cooker and placing them on a roll.
“When did the meatballs get here?” I asked while grabbing a can of diet soda.
“Your grandmother didn’t think the cold cuts were sufficient. I didn’t fight her when I saw the meatballs.” He gave me a wry little grin. “So, how are you holding up?”
He set his plate down and faced me. His eyes were warm and empathetic.
When you’re already upset about something and someone asks, “How are you doing” or “Are you all right?” it suddenly makes you burst into uncontrollable tears. I knew if I tried to speak, my voice would crack and the floodgates from my eyes would start, so I just shrugged.
“If you need to duck out of here for a while, I’ll cover for you.” He glanced around to make sure
