“Then we try the day after.” He took my good hand. “You survived brain surgery, Claudette. Walking will feel manageable eventually.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll be here when it does.”
Six weeks post-surgery, Michael’s grandfather showed up.
I was in physical therapy trying to walk without the parallel bars when Augustus Ashford appeared in the doorway, he wore a t-shirt and baseball cap. Sandra stood just behind him, arms full of bags she was quietly depositing on the side table—soft blankets, books, what looked like homemade soup containers, slippers that actually looked comfortable unlike the hospital-issued ones.
I promptly lost my balance.
David caught me before I hit the floor. “Whoa. You okay?”
“Fine. Just—” I couldn’t find the word. “Someone’s here.”
Augustus made his way across the room slowly, one hand on his cane, taking in the scene—me clinging to my physical therapist, Michael rising from his chair in the corner, and rushing over to me.
“There she is—my brave girl,” Augustus said, as Michael took over from David, helping David transfer me into the wheelchair. His hands were gentle, familiar, and I leaned into him without thinking.
My grandfather-in-law was looking at me like I’d done something worth being proud of.
“I’m not brave,” I said, easing into the wheelchair. “I’m barely holding on.”
“Same thing, in my experience.” He eased himself into the nearby chair, letting out a small grunt as he sat. “You’re working hard. Mike keeps telling me about how much of a fighter you are,”
I turned to look up Michael, why didn’t I know this? He shot me a shrug and then a lopsided smile. Deep inside I felt warm, both from the way his relationship with his grandfather seemed to have improved and also the fact that he thought I was a fighter.
“What? It’s true.” Michael’s eyes held mine, soft and steady. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“I still can’t walk without help. My left hand doesn’t work right. I’m exhausted all the time. I survived brain surgery and I’m still useless.” I muttered out the last part.
“You’re not useless. You’re recovering.” Augustus cut in instantly but his tone was fond. “Do you know what I did when I was thirty-five?”
“No.” I said.
“I had a heart attack. Massive one. Spent three months relearning how to do basic things because my heart had stopped and damaged everything. I thought my life was over.”
I stared at him, somehow unable to believe it. Even at eighty-five, he still looked so strong and healthy. “You don’t look like it.”
“Of course not. I don’t advertise weakness.” He laughed, a warm rumble that filled the quiet space. “But I recovered. It took time, so I understand how you feel. Some days you’re going to feel like you’re moving backwards. But I recovered. And you will too.”
We talked for another hour after that. About Sandra’s ongoing war with the gardener, Michael’s childhood disasters, the beach house and whether the kitchen needed updating. Augustus told stories that made Michael groan and cover his face, and I laughed until my head ached — the good kind, the kind that reminded me I was still here to feel things.
When Sandra finally appeared in the doorway with a pointed look at her watch, Augustus sighed and pushed himself up from the chair.
“Alright, alright. I’m being summoned.” He leaned down and pressed a papery kiss to my forehead. “You keep fighting, you hear me? I expect to see you walking on your own the next time I visit.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, grinning.
He was halfway to the door when he stopped, patting his jacket pocket. “Almost forgot.” He pulled out a small leather-bound book and walked back to press it into my hands. “Mike says you’re struggling with fine motor skills. Writing practice helps.”
I opened it. Journal pages. It was blank with cream-colored. Waiting.
“So write,” he said simply. Then he squeezed my shoulder once, nodded at Michael, and let Sandra usher him out.
The room felt quieter after he left. Emptier, but not in a sad way.
I ran my fingers over the leather cover, traced the gilded edges of the pages. All of it blank and waiting for words I hadn’t written yet.
