Was she in pain?
“Hey,” I called out as I slid from behind the wheel. “I made it.”
“I see that. I’m glad,” Gran said. She shifted to lean against the doorframe as though she couldn’t stand on her own but thought better of it when she noticed me watching closely. “How was your drive?”
I made my way to her, eager for a hug.
“Not too bad. I hit a little traffic, but not much.” I squeezed her to me, but not as tight as I normally would. She seemed too fragile—too frail. Neither were words I would have ever used to describe her before.
My throat constricted at the thought.
“I’ve missed you,” Gran whispered.
“I missed you too.” A sweet, familiar aroma floated to my nose and I smiled wide as I released her from a hug. “Is that what I think it is?”
“You know it,” Gran insisted. “It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t have fresh blueberry cobbler ready and waiting for you.”
“One of these days you’re going to give me that recipe,” I said in a teasing tone like I always did.
“I know. I will soon.” Her tone was light, but her words still hit me hard. They were a reminder that her time here was limited.
It always had been. I mean, Gran would be the first to say that she wasn’t getting any younger, but it was different now. The thickness of death hung in the air around her. I could sense it, and so could my bear. I was sure Gran could too, she’d always had a knack for knowing things.
Things she shouldn’t, and things she couldn’t explain.
She called it a gift. It was something that passed through the women in our family. My mother had it, and so did I. While Gran’s came as whispers of the future, my mom’s gift had been tied to her emotions. She’d felt things strongly—both good and bad. My gift was tied to my art.
A boom of thunder rolled through the distance. The wind kicked up, and in it I could smell rain coming. It was one of my favorite scents.
“Grab your stuff and come on inside. There’s a storm rolling in,” Gran insisted. She patted my hand once and then disappeared inside.
I folded my arms over my chest, staring after her. Gray clouds rolled in as more wind caressed against me, sending my dark hair into my eyes. Gran was sicker than she’d let on. I could feel it. Whatever this was, I didn’t think she planned to survive it, and that knowledge gutted me.
My palm tingled with the familiar twitch to paint but I forced it away, knowing whatever came to me wouldn’t be anything good.
Instead, I grabbed my suitcase and headed inside. Fat raindrops chased me up the porch steps. I opted to leave my plants in my SUV overnight and stepped inside. Everything still looked the same. The same three fluffy blankets hung on the blanket rack near the fireplace. The picture I painted when I was ten still lived on the mantle. The philodendron plant I’d taken a snipping off before I left still wound its way around the living room, making the inside of the cabin look like a jungle.
“I can’t believe how much that plant has grown since I left. It’s almost made its way down the hall,” I said, staring at its vibrant green leaves tacked along the walls.
“Things tend to grow a lot in a year’s time,” she insisted. Tiny pinpricks of guilt stabbed through me at having been gone for so long. “Put your stuff in your room and meet me in the kitchen for some cobbler.”
I made my way down the tiny hallway and stopped at the first door on the right. My hand froze once I gripped the knob; my mind suddenly flooded with memories from the last time I was here. My teeth sank into my bottom lip as I swung the door open.
The room smelled stale. It also wasn’t quite as cool as the rest of the house. It never had been. There’d always been something wonky with the AC ductwork in here. I glanced around, soaking in the way everything seemed untouched. While the room wasn’t dusty or unkept, it was just as I’d left it—bare. A new comforter had been added to the bed. It was white with pale yellow flowers, and a green lamp now sat on the nightstand where mine used to, but the walls were bare, and so was the desk in the corner.
It felt like the room had been waiting for my return.
I hoisted my suitcase on the bed and headed to the kitchen to meet Gran. She was seated at the tiny table in the center of the kitchen, waiting on me with two plates of cobbler. I moved to sit in the chair beside her, noticing something flickering through her eyes.
An in-depth conversation was coming.
My throat squeezed shut because I knew what the topic would be. Regardless if I wanted to know what ailment had its clutches deep in Gran or not, the time had come.
“Okay, tell me what’s wrong. What is it? Why are you so sick?” I asked, thinking it was best to dive in instead of continuing to sit in awkward silence.
“I can’t tell you why I’m sick, because I don’t know. Why does anyone ever get sick, honey? That’s not a question that can be answered.” Gran leaned forward and grabbed hold of my hand. I looked at her, waiting for her to continue while also taking note of how dark the area beneath her eyes was now, how hollow. Her skin looked papery and covered with wrinkles.
Had she always looked this old?
There was something different about her; something had changed. It took me a second to pinpoint what, though. There was a stillness to her—one of peace—like she knew death was coming soon and there was nothing she could do to deter its path. Whatever she was sick with she’d already accepted it would send
