Rebecca looked up to see Granny standing there. Her Granny, petal-pink pocketbook clutched in her hands with her old, familiar Bible poking out between the handles, spring straw hat, the same hat Rebecca remembered from her childhood, crooked atop her gray curls.
And her eyes. Those dark, deep eyes. Indian eyes, Granny called them. Watching. Waiting.
But instead of judgment and disappointment, Rebecca saw worry, concern. Even a little fear.
Most of all, she saw love. The years melted away.
Hours later, the room was quiet, the warm glow of the setting sun smoothing out the lines and spots on Granny’s arms as they sat, hand-in-hand, in the hospital room. Granny smelled of peppermint and lavender, the scents of home.
“Was he worth it?” Granny asked quietly, and Rebecca didn’t even have to strain to hear the South Carolina twang in her words. “If the pills had worked, if you’d died last night, would he have been worth it all?”
Rebecca let out a breath. “No.”
It was the truth. Peter wasn’t worth it at all. And right now, he seemed like he was a million miles away, as if she’d imagined him, an artificial replica of those perfect men she and her cousin used to conjure up in their bedtime make-your-own-husband games, where they’d invent the ideal man they’d one day marry. Vikki’swas usually blond and outdoorsy, occasionally an artsy type or a politician thrown in here or there. Rebecca’s, however, was always tall, dark and brooding, charming and dashing, always rushing out to handle the next big thing and then coming home with flowers and romance.
She’d gotten what she’d asked for. Peter was certainly dashing. And ambitious. And everything else she’d thought she wanted.
Until he broke her heart. Until he didn’t come home at all, except to pack his bags and inform her he was moving in with what’s-her-face.
Alyssa.
Rebecca had set herself up for failure from the start.
“It was everything, Granny.” She swallowed hard. “Peter, losing my job, not being able to dig myself out of the pit. Everything I built my life on, it all just crumbled down to nothing. I just feel so … so empty.”
The last word was so soft it could have been a whisper. Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears back, but one slipped past, tickled her cheek as it rolled to her chin.
Granny just arched a brow, patted her Bible, which now rested beside her. “Sounds like it’s time to build your house on solid ground.”
A long silence fell over them, so long Rebecca thought Granny might have fallen asleep there in the hospital chair. Surely Granny was tired. She’d taken an early flight to come here, had sat all day keeping watch, taking care.
Rebecca peered out the window, straining to see the bustle of city outside. All she could glimpse was amber sunlight glinting off concrete. New York had been her home for fifteen years now, and sometimes she still felt like a tourist.
A knock came at the door, and she and Granny both sat up. The lights flicked on.
“Hi, Rebecca, I’m Dr. Carter.”
He was a tall thin man in a white coat, his balding head shining like a beacon framed by thick brown domes of hair by his ears. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the edges, and the hair domes bounced.
“Head of psychiatrics here. We met earlier, though I don’t imagine you remember. And you’re her grandmother?”
“Yes. Helen Chastain.”
They shook hands and then went through the details—the backstory, the pills she took, the stomach pumping, the counseling she’d need. It had been Sarah who’d found her. Sarah, her best friend who lived clear across the city now, who was supposed to be driving upstate for the weekend with her new fiancé. Sarah, who’d had a “bad feeling” and used her spare key to let herself into Rebecca’s loft apartment, found her passed out cold on her computer desk. She hadn’t even written a note. The empty bottle of pills and glass of wine said it all.
“I didn’t mean to kill myself. I didn’t want to die.” Her voice was small, cracked on the last word. “I—I was just tired of it all. Tired of the game, the mess everything had become. Tired of hurting all the time.” A bitter laugh escaped, which turned into a sigh.
“You’re a journalist, right?”
“I was assistant editor. On the fast track.” Her lips twisted, and for a moment she remembered how it felt to rise. And fall.
“It’s a hard market.”
“You can say that again.”
He cocked his head, looked first at Granny, then at her. She decided she liked him.
“So why the pills?” He leaned in. “You know better.”
