CHAPTER FOUR
Emma
One diary entryand the world I thought I knew feels as though it’s crumbling around me. The words read in history books don't compare to the ones spoken by a person I love. “Grams, why haven't you ever told this to any of us?” I askher.
Grams’s head sinks into the pillow, and her unfocused gaze floats to the ceiling. “No one told the survivors how to deal with the after effects of having their lives torn apart. There weren't many of usaround.”
“Yes, but there had to be some kind of help, right?” Iask.
Grams chuckles softly as if what I said was a joke. “Emma, it would be like a person who has never suffered from some type of addiction telling an addict that they can move on from their habit, and how to do so. Unless you've lived through it, you can't preach advice to the victims. Plus, most of the memories were too painful to face, and I had to lock them away in that diary.” I understand what she's saying, but never talking about it, even with us, doesn't make sense. Ithurts.
“Talking always helps me,” I tellher.
“I'm talking to you now, sweetie,” shesays.
“What about Mom and Annie?” Iask.
Grams shakes her head ever so slightly. “I don't want them to know. They're too sensitive, and it’s too late to explain why I never answered the questions they have asked so many timesbefore.”
Without even thinking, I say, “It can be our secret.” As the words came out, I knew it wouldn’t be just some simple secret to hold onto. I would be imprinted on mylife.
“I want you to hold onto it, so it's neverforgotten.”
I take Grams’s hand and squeeze it tenderly. “I can do that foryou.”
With a profound inhale, she glances back at me with solidity burning from her gaze. “I don't want the surgerytomorrow.”
“No way,” I argue. “It's the only way to prevent you from having another stroke. You were lucky this time. It was mild. You may not be so lucky next time. There's no other choice,Grams.”
“Emma,” she says, complacently, “there is anotherway.”
“What? No, there isn't. You are not going to rot, not after what you've already beenthrough.”
“I'm ninety-two. I'm too old for surgery. I'm too old for miracles. It's time for me to make peace with my life and move on.” She speaks as though she's been contemplating this for a while, but I don’t understand how anyone can so easily become resigned to dying. Death scares me. I thought it scared most people. Though, Grams isn’t most people—I know that more than evernow.
“You still have more life to live,” I tell her, spitting out empty words with nothing to back up myreasoning.
“Em, I live by myself, talk to myself, eat by myself, and think to myself all day, everyday.”
“I'll come over more. I'll have meals with you, and you can talk to me whenever you want. Please, I’m not ready to let you go.” I'm begging for her to change her mind, but I know the look in her eye. It’s the look she makes when she's made a finaldecision.
“You need to start a life of your own,” shesays.
“I have a life of my own,” Iargue.
“You've never been in love, Emma. You don't understand.” As I digest her words, I feel hurt by what she's saying, but after a moment of clarity and silently repeating her words to myself, I realize she may beright.
“I want what you and Grandpa had,” I tell her. “It's on my list of things to accomplish in mylifetime.”
With what seems like all her effort, she presses her elbows into the bed and pulls herself up into a more upright position. “Emma, listen to me,” she begins, frankly. “What your grandfather and I had was love, sure, but it wasn't the kind of love some search for throughout an entire lifetime. He was a good man—my best friend for many, many years—and he treated me well, but sometimes we’re not always with the right people inlife.”
Confusion. That must be what this is. “Grams, maybe you should rest.” I stand up to fluff herpillow.
“Sit back down, Emma,” shedemands.
The sternness of her words forces me to do as she says. “I'm trying to tell you something important, and you need tolisten.”
“Okay,” Iutter.
