“Hey, Gran, it’s Janie,” I try. My grandmother looks out the window, somehow shorter and skinnier than when I last saw her two days ago. Her dark brown hair is completely gray these days, pulled back in a low ponytail. I have my dad’s eyes, meaning I have her eyes, a very light hazel. I hope I see some recognition in them. Her nurse called and I hurried over, in hopes that her good moments after breakfast might last a while longer.
“Janie?” She turns and, thank God, breaks into a huge, soft smile. “My favorite grandchild.”
“Granddaughter, Gran. You mean granddaughter. You have Jack too.”
She glares hilariously, “I said what I said.”
Gran.
I rush to hug her, my eyes welling with tears. This woman raised me, taught me, loved me. Took me and Jack in when she was supposed to be living her golden years. Never complained. Just showed us the ropes. Gave us everything she had.
And I left.
And then, well before I was ready, she left. Her mental clarity just up and disappeared. Like my mom so many years ago. Now, also like Mom through the years, her brilliant mind comes and goes as it pleases.
I sniff.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing, just missed you.”
“Too much time in that city. You know they just pile the trash up in big heaps on the sidewalk. It’s uncivilized.” I nod, not bothering to correct her about me moving home from New York. To her, right now I could be eighteen or any age since then.
“I know, you warned me. It smells like shit.”
“Language! Heaven help me, you really are a New Yorker now. But it’s been what, seven, eight years there now?”
I relax a little bit, she’s present. Here, with me as my twenty-seven-year-old self. I’m not sure if she remembers that I’ve moved back home but it’s not worth upsetting her. I keep things vague.
“Gran, I have some news.”
“You must have if you’ve come all the way to visit. A boy?”
I roll my eyes, “A man, yes.”
“Thank God. We’ve just been counting down the days until you would move on from that artist boy. Bobbie said it should’ve been quicker but Kim reminded her it’s not everyday someone gets left at the altar,” she says, angry.
“Theo and I never made it to the altar, Gran.”
“Close enough!” She starts coughing so I hand her her water.
I make eye contact, hoping she’s still with me, “Anyway, his name is Benedict. He’s amazing. Handsome, funny, British.”
“British, with the accent?” If she was wearing pearls I think she would clutch them.
“Yup.”
She narrows her eyes, “Sounds charming.”
I grimace, “He is. But I promise he’s different, genuine. He really cares. I want you to meet him.”
“Alright,” she softens a bit, “I’m sure he’s not good enough but I’ll give him a shot.”
“Thanks. So,” I look out at the gorgeous fall day. “It’s really nice out today, want to go for a walk?”
“Of course not,” she says. “Exercise is for the young.”
“C’mon, Gran,” I say, taking a step toward her. But something triggers her, either the step or the idea of walking or maybe just my face.
