“Then I’ll give you half. I’ll note down the amount and the time and let her know when she gets back.”
Taking out a syringe, I fill it halfway with morphine and inject it into the extension on his cannula.
The blessed relief is almost instant. He sighs and lays his head back, smiling. “Now, I need you to go to the den and find the folder that says Jon Powers’ Last Will and Testament.”
“Why don’t you rest?” I drop the used syringe into the wastebasket and repack the vials of morphine.
Grandpa swings his arm and upsets the toolbox. “Just do what I ask. Can’t you see this cancer’s killing me?”
Shock hits me like a live wire piercing my veins. Truth stares me in the face. He might not make it until next Christmas.
“Why do you need it now? You need to rest. The family will be here soon.”
I realize I’m babbling when he grabs my sleeve with the urgency of a desperate man. “I want to review the gifts I’m giving them, and I need to do it before midnight.”
“What happens at midnight?” I still can’t grasp what the hurry is.
“Christmas happens.” He turns his palms up like a worshipper at a church service. “I want to greet Christmas morning in a big way. Don’t argue. Just get me the will.”
When I hesitate, he points a finger and thunders, “Now.”
I hurry to the den, and sure enough, the file folder is on top of my father’s desk. When I return to the sickroom, Grandpa has already put away Erica’s kit and locked the toolbox.
He hands me the key and takes the manila folder, apparently comfortable enough to review the contents. I hand him his reading glasses and refill his water bottle, making sure to insert a clean straw.
The doorbell chimes, and the dogs arouse themselves and bark.
“They’re back.” I push the toolbox with the medications underneath the hospital bed and replace the key under the statue.
Instead of the family returning, a man wearing a hat and coat covered with snow comes in.
“Sorry to disturb you at this hour,” he says, taking off his hat. “I’m your grandfather’s lawyer. How’s he doing?”
“Is he expecting you?” I check my watch and realize it’s only forty minutes before midnight.
“Yes. He arranged our meeting. Is he still up?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand why he has to meet you Christmas Eve.”
The lawyer doesn’t comment. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack along with his hat and follows me to the sickroom.
I figure they don’t want me hanging around, so I leave and go to the bay window. A pickup truck with a mini snowplow idles on the drive, waiting for the lawyer.
This must have been a really important meeting. I don’t like it, because Grandpa always has a trick up his sleeve for Christmas.
Is he changing the will? If that’s the case, I have to let him know Sammie is not my daughter. This was all supposed to be a game. I didn’t truly believe he would change his will so soon.
I need to let him know.
Wheeling around, I dash toward the guest room. The dogs jump out of the way and rush toward the front door, wagging their tails.
I can hear happy voices outside and footsteps clambering up the porch steps. The front door bursts open, and the first person to rush in is Abbie, followed by Sammie and the Brant sisters.
A flurry of hats, scarves, and coats fly onto the racks, and boots are removed and placed in the mudroom.
“We got home before midnight,” Macy exclaims. “There’s a truck out there, and the driver says Grandpa has a visitor. Does that mean he stayed up?”
“Santa always stays up the night before Christmas,” Abbie says. “Is he not sick anymore?”
